//».  \  ,^ 
University  of  California. 


JUi 


EPISODES 


AND 


LYRIC  PIECES 


BY 

ROBERT  KELLEY  WEEKS. 


THE 

UNIVERSITY 


NEW  YORK: 

LEYPOLDT    &    HOLT. 
1870. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

ROBERT  KELLEY  WEEKS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


THE  NEW  YORK  PRINTING  COMPANY, 

81,  83,  and^s  Centre  Street* 

NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


PART     FIRST. 

PAGE 

The  Return  of  Paris,             .             .             .             .  3 

Song,        ....             .             .             .  10 

King  ^Egeus,  .  .  .  .  .11 

In  Corinth,             .             »             .             .             .  13 

In  Collatia,    .             .             ...  22 

Medusa,     .             .             .  .           ..            .              .  28 

A  Winter  Evening,    .               ....  30 

A  Spring  Morning,             .             ...             .  35 

Shadows,        ......  36 

A  Change,             .....  37 

Ad  Finem,     ......  39 

The  New  Narcissus,          .             .             .             .  41 

A  Question,    .  .  .  .  .42 

Pilgrimage,             .....  45 

Sir  Gawaine's  Love,  .             .             .             .             •  57 

Her  Name,           .              .              .              .  •           .  75 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

In  Winter, 7& 

Greenhouse  Flowers,         .             .             .             .  77 

Till  Spring,    ......  79 

In  Nubibus,           .....  84 

A  Pause,         ......  87 

Too  Late,             .....  89 

Autumn  Song,             .....  9° 

Undersong,            .             .             .             .             •  91 

A  Prodigal,    ......  93 

Maggior  Dolore,                ....  9^ 

Gone,             ......  99 

The  Moral, I°I 

The  End, IO2 


PART     SECOND. 

VitaVitalis,  .  .  .  •  •  -105 

A  Day, IIQ 

The  River,     ......       "5 

"In  the  Springtime,"        .  .  .  •  "7 

In  Early  April,  .  .  .  •  .118 

InMay, "9 

Spring  Song «' 

May  Song,  -.  .  .  •  •  I23 


CONTENTS.  V 

PACK 

Moonlight  in  May,    .             .            ,            .  .125 

In  the  Meadow,     .            .            .            .            .  126 

By  the  Lake,  .....       127 

By  the  Bay,          .....  128 

The  Mist,      ......       129 

Kara  Avis,             .             .             .             .             .  132 

The  Katydid,              .             .            .             .  .133 

A  Vine,    ......  135 

On  the  Beach,            .             .             .            .  .136 

A  Glimpse  of  Life,            .             .             .             .  137 

My  Star,         .              .              .              .              .  .138 

Man  and  Nature,              .             .             .             .  139 

Calm  and  Cold,          .             .             .             .  .141 

Winter  Sunrise,    .....  142 

Winter  Sunset,           .             .             .             .  .143 

By  the  Fireside,                 ....  144 

The  Men  of  Crete,     .            .             .            .  .145 

The  Lion  of  Lucerne,       ....  146 

My  Place,      .             .            .            .            .  .148 

Ad  Amicum,        .            .            .            .             .  164 


The  "  Return  of  Paris "  was  suggested  by  Mr.  Cox's  tale  of 
(Enone  in  the  "  Tales  of  the  Gods  and  Heroes."  The  particular 
version  of  a  story,  which  Lecky  says  is  of  frequent  occurrence  in 
accounts  of  the  early  Christians,  which  I  have  used  in  the  "In 
Corinth,"  is  one  that  I  found  accidentally  in  Hippolytus  (vol.  2,  p. 
96_vol.  IX.  of  the  Ante-Nicene  Library),  who  represents  the  girl 
as  "  a  certain  most  noble  and  beautiful  maiden  in  the  city  of 
Corinth"  whom  the  "young  man  Magistrianus"  a  Christian  also, 
saves  in  the  way  indicated  in  the  poem.  I  have  preferred  to  think 
of  the  young  man  as  a  Pagan  (with  a  touch  of  modern  sentiment), 
who  does  for  love  what  Hippolytus  says  the  Christian  did,  striving 
"  nobly  for  his  own  immortal  soul."  Sir  Gawaine  is,  of  course,  an 
anachronistic  consideration  ( I  hope  not  too  curious  a  one)  of  the  old 
ballad  in  Percy.  In  writing  the  "Maggior  Dolore  "  (perhaps  I  may 
as  well  say )  I  was  probably-  thinking  quite  as  much  of  the  Third 
Canto  of  the  Inferno  as  of  the  Fifth, 


PART   FIRST. 

WITH  MEN  AND   WOMEN. 


THE    RETURN    OF    PART5 


T  STUMBLED  thrice,  and  twice  I  fell  and  lay 
-*•  Moaning  and  faint,  and  yet  I  did  not  pray 
To  any  God  or  Goddess  of  them  all; 
Because  I  never  doubted,  climb  or  crawl, 
That  I  should  reach  the  fountain  and  the  tall 
One  old  familiar  pine-tree,  where  I  lay 
Prone  on  my  face,  with  outstretched  hands,  you 

say, 

Fallen  once  again  —  this  time  against  the  goal. 
And  now,  what  shall  I  pray  for  ?  since  my  whole 
Wish  is  accomplished,  and  I  have  your  face 
Once  more  by  mine  in  the  remembered  place, 
And  the  cool  hand  laid  on  my  head  aright, 
A  little  while  before  I  die  to-night. 


4  THE  RETURN  OF  PARIS. 

For  surely  I  am  dying :   not  a  vein 
But  has  received  the  poison  and  the  pain 
Of  Philoctetes'  arrow. — Oh  !  I  heard 
The  hissing  of  the  vengeance  long  deferred, 
And  felt  it  smite  me,  and  not  smite  me  dead; 
And  all  at  once  the  very  words  you  said 
Too  long  ago  returned  to  me  once  more — 
When,  as  you  shall  be,  you  are  wounded  sore, 
Come  back  to  me,  and  I  will  cure  you  then, 
Whom  none  but  I  can  cure :  and  once  again, 
Sweet !  I  am  with  you,  and  am  cured  by  you, 
And  by  you  only ;  and  yet  it  is  true 
That  I  must  die,  CEnone.     So  it  is, 
And  better  that  it  is  so  !     Hark  to  this. 
How  good  it  were,  if  we  could  live  once  more 
The  old  sweet  life  we  found  so  sweet  before — 
Here  in  the  mountain  where  we  were  so  glad, 
Ere  I  was  cruel  and  ere  you  were  sad ! 
How  good  it  were  could  we  begin  again 
The  old  sweet  life  just  where  we  left  it  then  ! 


THE  RETURN  OF  PARIS.  5 

A  song,  love  ; — but  my  singing  voice  is   gone — 

The  one  song  that  I  made,  the  only  one 

After  I  left  you  to  be  mad  so  long ; 

(A  marvellous  thing  to  have  made  no  other  song  !) 

The  only  one — which,  many  months  ago, 

Came  to  me  strangely  with  a  soft  and  slow 

Movement  of  music,  which  at  first  was  sad, 

But  sad  and  sweet,  and  after  only  sad, 

And  then  most  bitter,  as  its  death  gave  birth 

To  a  low  laughter  of  uneasy  mirth — 

Made  of  blent  noises  that  the  night-winds  bore, 

The  lapse  of  waves  upon  the  dusky  shore, 

The  creaking  of  the  tackle,  and  the  stir 

Of  threatening  banners  where  the  camp-fires  were 

About  the  armies,  that  no  such  a  charm 

As  a  regretful  love-song,, could  disarm, 

And  bring  to  life  the  heroes  that  were  slain, 

And  make  the  war  as  if  it  were  a  vain 

Noise  in  the  night  that  at  the  morn  is  not, 

And  all  the  Past  a  dream  that  it  begot. 


6  THE  RETURN  OF  PARIS. 

The  wind  was  right  to  laugh  my  song  away ! 

And  then  I  thought — if  only  for  a  day 
I  might  be  with  her,  only  for  so  long 
As  to  be  pardoned  or  (forgive  the  wrong) 
Cursed  by  her  there,  and  so  get  leave  to  die  ! 
And  here  we  are,  OEnone,  you  and  I  ! 
Yes,  we  are  here !  why  ever  otherwhere  ? 

Ah  !  why  indeed  ?     And  yet,  love,  let  me  dare 

Uncover  my  whole  heart  to  you  once  more ; 

I  think  I  never  was  so  blest  before — 

Never  so  happy  as  I  am  to-day. 

Not  even,  indeed,  when  in  the  early  May 

We  found  each  other,  and  were  quite  too  glad 

To  know  the  value  of  the  love  we  had. 

But  now  I  seem  to  know  it  in  my  need, 

Inhaling  the  full  sweetness  of  it — freed 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  from  its  perfect  flower ; 

Ah !  quite  too  sweet  to  overlast  its  hour  ! 


THE  RETURN  OF  PARIS.  7 

What  more  now  shall  I  pray  for?  To  be  let 
Live  and  not  die  ?   Ah !  if  we  could  forget 
All  but  the  Present  and  outlaw  the  Past! 
And  yet  I  know  not — could  the  Present  last 
If  quite  cut  off  from  all  that  gave  it  birth, 
And  not  be  changed,  if  changed  to  alien  earth, 
Into  a  Future  that  we  know  not  of? 
We  will  not  ask :  we  have  attained  to  Love — 
Whatever  grown  from — which  not  all  the  years 
Past  or  to  come,  nor  memories  nor  fears, 
Can  rob  us  of  forever,  nor  make  less. 
No  praying  then — but  only  thankfulness ! 

No  sound  floats  hither  from  the  smoky  plain : 
Turn  me  a  little — never  mind  the  pain — 
I  see  it  now.     And  that  was  Ilion  then  ! 
The  accursed  city  in  the  mouths  of  men, 
Whose  mouths  are  swift  to  interweave  its  name 
With  mine  forever  for  a  word  of  shame. 
I  never  loved  it,  and  it  loved  me  not — 


8  THE  RETURN  OF  PARIS. 

The  fatal  firebrand  that  itself  begot 

And   tried   to   quench   and   could    not — there   it 

smokes ! 

And  there  the  shed  blood  of  its  people  soaks 
Into  the  soil  that  they  loved  more  than  life. 

Let  the  Gods  answer,  who  decreed  the  strife  ! 
But  you,  great-hearted,  whom  indeed  I  loved — 
Brother  and  friend,  by  whom,  if  unapproved, 
I  was  loved  sometime  in  the  upper  air — 
Will  you  turn  from  me  when  I  meet  you  there 
And  greet  you,  Hector,  in  the  other  world? 
Will  you  turn  from  me,  with  lip  coldly  curled, 
And  frank  eyes  hardened? — 

I  accept  the  sign ! 

Lo  you !    GEnone,  where  the  gloomy  line 
Of  the  slow  clouds  is  broken,  and  a  bright 
Gleam,  like  a  smile,  steals  softly  into  sight 
And  grows  to  a  glory  in  the  increasing  sky  ! 


THE  RETURN  OF  PARIS.  9 

Nay,  you  are  right,  love !    What  have  you  and  I 
To  do  with  Past  or  Future,  who  have  for  boon 
So  rich  a  Present,  to  exhaust  so  soon 
Between  the  daylight  and  the  afterglow? 
The  last  cloud  passes,  and  how  calm  I  grow ! 
And  now — if  I  should  close  my  eyes,  my  love, 
And  seem  to  sleep  a  little,  and  not  move 
Until  the  sky  has  got  its  perfect  gold, 
You  will  not  think  me  dying  while  I  hold 
Your  hand  thus  closely?    Kiss  me  now.     Again! 
Past   chance   of  change — just    where    we    left   it 
then. 

CENONE. 

I  had  him  last !    I  had  him  first  and  last ! 
His  morning  beauty  and  his  evening  charm ! 
Oh,  Love  !  triumphant  over  all  the  Past, 
What    Death    can    daunt    you,    or    what    Future 
harm  ? 


SONG. 

A    N  under-cloud  that  half  reveals, 
^^     Half  hides  a  splendid  star  ; 
(Even  then  more  clear  than  others  are, 

As  always  queenlier.) 
Such  was  my  love  to  her. 

A  wilting  wind  that  bends  a  rose 

Not  very  long  nor  far; 
(Even  then  more  fresh  than  others  are, 

As  always  lovelier.) 
Such  was  my  love  to  her. 

O  star  of  stars,  as  clear  and  high  ! 

O  rose  of  roses,  none  the  less ! 
The  cloud  is  blown  out  of  the  sky, 

The  wind  is  in  the  wilderness. 


I 


KING    ^)GEUS. 

(A  Fragment.) 

T  was  a  day  of  light ;  the  gracious  sun 


Filled  full  of  light  the  insatiate  Autumn  air, 
And  streamed  in  splendour  on  the  exulting  sea, 
Till  the  low  waves,  blent  by  the  rippling  breeze, 
Near  by  showed  blinding  silver — but  beyond, 
The  laughter  of  innumerable  eyes 
That  winked  in  an  embarrassment  of  joy. 
Above,  the  undazzled  sky  was  calm,  was  blue, 
With  here  and  there  a  lonely  dimpled  cloud, 
White  as  the  flying  sea-foam  whence  it  sprang— 
Slow  wandering  noiseless  on  its  dreamy  way, 
Half  heedless  of  the  embracing  wind's  desire; 


12  KING 

And  on  the  land  the  sun  smiled  joyously, 

The    green    fields    took    a    brighter    green,    the 

grain 

Rose  panting  broadly  to  the  genial  light, 
And  bending  low,  returned  the  golden  smile ; 
All  things  were  overfull  of  happy  life, 
And  all  the  mingled  noises  in  the  air 
Seemed  vainly  murmuring  of  the  joy  of  earth  : 
Alone  amid  them  all,  the  sad  old  king 
Sat  listening,  and  heard  nothing  but  a  sound 
Of  quivering  silence  in  his  empty  ears — 
Sat  looking,  and  saw  nothing  but  a  want 
Of  anything  to  see  in  all  the  world, 
Unfilled  as  yet  by  any  little  sail. 


IN    CORINTH. 

T     ET  me  review  it  all  before  I  sleep ; 

I  am  still  too  happy  to  be  quiet  yet, 
And  grudge  to  give  one  morsel  of  my  joy, 
Unrelished  fully,  to  distorting  dreams, 
Or  mere  oblivion  :  let  me  taste  it  all 
Slowly  and  thankfully  from  end  to  end, 
And  then  the  last  before  the  final  sleep 
From  which  I  wake  to  wait  for  her  in  heaven 
It  must  be  so,  I  feel  that  it  is  so. 

Before  I  ever  held  her  by  the  hand, 
Before  I  ever  called  her  by  her  name, 
Before  I  ever  looked  her  in  the  face 
I  knew  and  loved  her,  as  I  knew  and  loved 


14  IN  CORINTH. 

All  things  whose  loveliness  makes  men  despair — 

Despair  and  love,  and  never  quite  despair. 

And  when  I  met  her  first,  a  year  ago, 

And  heard  her  voice  and  saw  her  mouth  and  eyes. 

This  is  the  love  that  I  foresaw,  I  said, 

And  thrilled  with  joy  to  see  her  here  at  last ; 

Here  and  not  here — for,  when  I  looked  again, 

I  saw  the  place  she  stood  on,  far  aloof 

From  all  of  me  except  my  merest  dreams, 

And  scorned  my  littleness,  and  turned  away 

And  let  despair  instruct  me  how  to  love. 

But  no  despair  could  teach  me  to  forget, 

Nor  utterly  compel  me  to  its  will, 

While  yet  my  heart  was  tender  to  the  touch 

Of  influences  from  the  day  and  night, 

The  sunlight  and  the  starlight,  grass  and  trees, 

And  clouds  and  skies  and  waters,  for  the  charm 

With  which  all  these  allured  me  and  repelled, 


IN  CORINTH.  15 

And  saddened  me,  and  quickened  and  consoled, 
Still  led  me  in  a  circle  back  to  her 
To  whom  all  other  loveliness  referred. 

I  saw  her  very  seldom  in  my  life — 

Too  very  seldom,  as  I  used  to  say ; 

It  irked  me  bitterly  to  waste  the  days 

So  far  from  Corinth  and  the  sight  of  her. 

And  does  it  irk  me  now  to  think  of  this  ? 

And  shall  I,  as  I  used,  accuse  the  Past, 

And  count  it  lost  because  not  spent  with  her  ? 

If  I  had  seen  her  oftener,  perhaps 

It  might  have  been  far  otherwise ;  but  now, 

How  is  it  now  ?  Is  it  not  perfect  now  ? 

I  would  not  have  it  otherwise. 

And  yet, 

Glad  as  I  am,  yes,  quite  content  and  glad — 
Perhaps,  indeed,  because  I  am  so  glad — 


1 6  IN  CORINTH. 

I  cannot  yet,  quite  yet,  forget  to  dream 

Of  all  that  might  have  been.     I  wish  I  knew 

More     of     that     Heaven    she     spoke     of.     But 

enough — 

It  is  enough ;  I  will  not  lose  in  dreams 
The  recollection  of  what  was  and  is. 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  live  to-night ; 
To-day  is  mine  and  yesterday  is  mine, 
To-morrow  shall  ask  questions  of  itself. 

Day  before  yesterday  I  said,  'Tis  now 

A  month  since  I  have  seen  or  heard  of  her ; 

To-morrow  is  the  birth-day  of  my  love  : 

A  year  ago  to-morrow  I  first  saw 

And  loved  the  only  woman  in  the  world. 

She  surely  cannot  love  me;  but  the  days 

Fall  from  my  life  like  withered  leaves,  and  soon 

What  freshness  will  be  left  of  all  my  youth? 

I  will  go  tell  her  all,  and  ask  her  leave 

At  least  to  be  permitted  to  outwear 


IN  CORINTH.  17 

My  life  in  some  impossible  attempt 
To  overcome  the  gulf  and  climb  the  height 
That  separates  me  from  her ;  or  at  least, 
I  will  go  see  her  and  not  say  a  word, 
See  her  once  more  and  go  away  content, 
And  never  vex  her  after.     That  is  best — 
See  her  once  more  and  afterward  no  more. 
And  so  it  was  ;  I  saw  her  just  once  more, 
And  proved  my  love  instead  of  speaking  it. 

She  is  quite  safe,  I  know,  and  out  of  reach — 
Quite  out  of  reach  of  that  accursed — God ! 
That  I  could  kill  him  !  She  is  surely  safe. 
But  it  is  dreadful  to  remember  now 
How  slight  an  error  might  have  thwarted  all. 
But  I  was  certain  that  I  should  succeed — 
I  never  doubted  once. 

When  I  first  heard 
That   she  was  brought  before  that  beastly  Judge 


1 8  IN  CORINTH. 

For  blasphemy  against  his  foolish  gods, 
I    knew  what  I  was  born  for.     When  they  said, 
"'Tis  a:/  pretext,  this  charge  of  blasphemy, 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  he  has  played  this  game  " 
(I  hate  myself  that  it  is  not  the  last), 
"He  only  wants  to  force  her  to  his  will" — 
Not  even  then  I  doubted,  tho'  the  words 
Made  my  knees  shake.     I  did  not  doubt  at  all, 
But  waited. 

In  the  afternoon  I  learned 
(Whether  made  blind  by  rage  or  keen  by  craft, 
What  matters  it?  I  thwarted  him  at  both), 
That  since  she  neither  would  deny  her  God 
Nor  take  such  pardon  as  he  offered  her, 
That  he  had  done  a  thing  impossible — 
Had  sent  her  to  a  brothel  with  command 
That  any  man  who  might  be  base  enough — 
I  hardly  can  believe  it  even  now ! 


IN  CORINTH.  19 

I  bargained  for  and  bought  her  with  a  price. 

That  was  a  strange  and  bitter  thing  to  do  : 

For  every  coin  I  could  have  better  borne 

To  give  a  piece  of  my  indignant  heart. 

It  needed  all  the  love  I  had  for  her 

To  save  me  from  the  frenzy  of  remorse, 

And  shame  and    pain   which   would  have  ruined 

all. 

This  too  becomes  a  thing  incredible — 
A  tale,  a  dream — I  will  not  think  of  it. 

But  all  the  rest  of  it  is  sweet  and  good. 
All  was  arranged,  the  friends  and  horses  sure, 
The  dusk  excluded  and  the  stars  aloft, 
When  I  gave  over  watching  and  went  in 
And  found  her — on  the  birth-day  of  my  love, 
I  thought  of  that — and  as  she  raised  her  eyes, 
Not  shamefully  but  grandly,  all  the  place 
Seemed  changed  and  sacred — a  good  place  to  be ; 


20  IN  CORINTH. 

Not,  as  I  called  it  while  I  watched  outside, 
A  dung-hill  darkened  by  a  spotless  rose, 
Black  mire  made  blacker  by  a  speckless  pearl, 
Night's  gloom  made  gloomier  by  a  single  star, 
But  night  was  morn,  white  marble  was  the  mire, 
And  the  dung-hill  a  garden  having  her. 

She  knew  me  in  a  moment,  took  my  hand 
And    said,      I    thought — I   knew  that  you  would 

come. 

What  must  we  do?"  I  told  her  all  the  plan. 
"  You  must  disguise  yourself  with  mask  and  cloak 
To  look  like  me ;  and  when  the  street  is  clear, 
Go  boldly  forth,  and  turning  to  the  right, 
Meet  and  be  safe  with  one  who  says  my  name." 
"  And  you  ?  " — t(  I  wait  a  while  and  watch  my  chance 
To  join  you  afterward."     She  smiled  a  strange, 
Unnamable,   sweet,  melancholy  smile, 
And  seemed  to  muse  a  moment,  and  then  said, 


IN  CORINTH.  21 

"Yes,  you  are  right !"  and  then,  "You  too  believe, 
As  I  do,  that  we  meet  our  friends  in  Heaven, 
And  know  each  other  after  death,  my  friend? 
Stoop  down  a  little.     I  kiss  you  now   and  here, 
And  make  you  an  appointment." 

So  she  said. 

But  here  they  say,   that  I  must  fight   the   beasts 
To-morrow.     To-morrow !  I  beat  them  yesterday k 


IN   COLLATIA. 

HP* HAT  he  were  come,  O    God  that  he  were 

come  ! 

To  wait  and  wait  for  him,  and  think  and  think, 
And  grow  old  thinking,  while  the  lazy  sun 
Crawls  inch  by  inch  along  the  helpless  sky — 
I  shall  be  gray  and  wrinkled  before  noon  ! 
Ah  !  'twas  not  thus  I  used  to  wait  for  him. 
'Twas  not  thus  yesterday,  yet  yesterday 
Was  not  so  beautiful  a  day  as  this. 
Impossible  that  I  can  be  so  changed ! 
To  dream  a  dream  of  evil,  and  awake 
And  half  remember  and  wholly  loathe  and  hate 
And  spurn  the  unasked,  unwelcomed,  alien  thing, 
How  can  that  make  one  impure  who  was  pure  ? 
Was  pure  ?  is  pure  ;  is  even  purer  now 


IN  COLL  ATI  A.  23 

By  so  much  as  the  evil  thing  is  loathed 
More,  more  and   more  for    that   chance  glimps 

of  it. 

Is  good  so  slight  a  thing  that  at  a  touch 
Evil  can  make  it  evil  against  its  will? 
Is  to  be  pure  no  more  than  to  escape 
The  passing  touch  of  loathed  impurity, 
Mere  bodily  good-fortune  ? 

Not  in  me ! 
I  am  Lucretia  still ! 

No,  I  am  not, 

No  more  than  this  gnawed  vine-leaf  is  the  same 
That  it  was  yesterday  before  the  worm 
Crawled  over  and  defiled  it  and  destroyed. 
Changed,    changed    and    changed !    and   he    too 

will  be  changed : 

I  am  but  a  beginning,  but  a  link 
In  a  long  chain  of  evil,  but  a  means 
To  transmit  pain  and  sorrow,  and  from  me — 
From  me  ?  O  what  am  I  become  ?  From  me ! 


24  IN  COLL  ATI  A. 

Why  do  I  turn  me  from  the  stainless  sky 

To  dwell  upon  this  miserable  leaf, 

Which  while  I  hold  I  shudder  at — and  hold? 

I  lose  myself,  I  stumble  in  the  paths 

Where  I  was  once  familiar,  while  a  sense 

Of  intimacy  with  things  hitherto 

Unknown    or    known    but    to    be    shunned    and 

spurned 

Takes  me  with  fascination,  till  I  seem 
To  be  but  one  of  many  whom  I  loathe, 
But  haply  shall  not  always  loathe  as  now ! 
There  is  some  awful  mystery  in  this, 
Some  dread  relationship  of  good  to  bad, 
Which  whirls  me  from  myself  to  think  of  it. 

But  I  am  not  one  of  them,  I  am  not, 
I  am  not  one  of  them.     I  am  myself, 
Lucretia  still  !     insulted  but  not  stained, 
Insulted,  wronged  and  wretched,  full  of  pain; 
Too  full  of  bitter  pain  and  shame  to  be 


IN  COLL  ATI  A.  25 

Akin  to  what  so  pains  me,  or  estranged 
From  what  it  tortures  me  so  much  to  lose. 
O  surely  I  am  not,  I  cannot  be 
The  thing  that  I  begin  to  understand  ! 

This  is  too  wild  and  foolish.     There  are  eight, 
Twelve,  fifteen,  eighteen — eighteen,  twenty  grapes, 
Twenty  grapes  on  this  cluster — twenty-one, 
Twenty-one  grapes  that  just  begin  to  change. 

But  so  was  this  unwilling — look  at  it, 
This  wretched  leaf,  this  leaf  that  do  I  hold 
Or  does  it  cling  to  my  unwilling  hand 
As  clung  the  worm  to  its  unwillingness? 
To  its  unwillingness,  to  its,  to  mine, 
To  its  unwilling  helplessness  and  mine. 
It  is  our  helplessness  and  not  our  will. 
No  help  by  night,  no  remedy  by  day ! 
Only  the  worm  is  safe,  that  poisons  us, 
And  makes  us  poison  others,  but  not  him. 


26  IN  COLL  ATI  A. 

Ours  all  the  pain,  the  bitter  grief,  the  shame, 
'Tis  we  who  suffer  for  it,  we — the  leaf, 
And  I — and  Collatinus, — worst  of  all ! 
O  worst  of  all  that  I  must  be  the  means, 
That  I — must,  must — O  mockery  of  will ! 
If  I  were  willing  should  I  suffer  so? 
There  is  no  way — not  if  I  die  at  once 
Can  he  escape  the  poison  and  the  pain. 

Helpless.     But  why  so  helpless  ?    Was  this  leaf 
Less  pure  than  any  other,  that  the  worm 
Chose  this  one  to  crawl  over  and  not  that? 
Why  was  this  chosen  to  be  so  denied? 

If  in  itself,  unknown  unto  itself, 

Unknown  and  unsuspected,  should  have  been 

Something  that  fitted  it  to  feed  the  worm  ! 

Ha!  the  breeze  blows  it  back  to  me  again! 
Off  from  my  dress !  I  trample  on  it — So ! 


IN  COLL  ATI  A.  27 

Be  still,  be  still,  be  still !  O  but  my  brain 
Is  giddy  with  intruding  thoughts  that  swarm 
Like  flies  for  carrion,  and  the  very  air 
Quivers  and  murmurs  with  a  hateful  thought, 
The  merciless  grasshoppers  make  me  mad 
With  hissing  all  one  word — O  horrible, 
That  ever  evil  should  give  aught  but  pain  ! 

I  must  be  patient.     What  a  day  it  is ! 
With  its  clear  sky,  its  white  unburthened  clouds, 
Its  noiseless  shadows  and  its  glancing  leaves, 
Its  songs,  its  voices  and  its  easy  wind 
Charmed  with  the  murmur  of  the  moving  trees ! 
O  husband,  love,  where  were  you,  ere  the  night 
Made    me    your    shame    who    used  to   be   your 

praise  ! 
No  more,  no  more  forever,  never  more ! 


MEDUSA. 

calm  and  cloudless  winter  night, 
Under  a  moonless  sky — 
Whence  I  had  seen  the  gracious  light 
Of  sunset  fade  and  die, — 

I  stood  alone  a  little  space, 
Where  tree  nor  building  bars 

Its  outlook,  in  a  desert  place, 
The  best  to  see  the  stars. 

No  sound  was  in  the  frosty  air, 

No  light  below  the  skies  ; 
I  looked  above,  and  unaware 

Looked  in  Medusa's  eyes  ; — 


MEDUSA.  29 

The  eyes  that  neither  laugh  nor  weep, 

That  neither  hope  nor  fear, 
That  neither  watch  nor  dream  nor  sleep, 

Nor  sympathize  nor  sneer; 

The  eyes  that  neither  spurn  nor  choose, 

Nor  question  nor  reply, 
That  neither  pardon  nor  accuse, 

That  yield  not  nor  defy; 

The  eyes  that  hide  not  nor  reveal, 

That  trust  not  nor  betray ; 
That  acquiesce  not  nor  appeal — 

The  eyes  that  never  pray. 

O  love  that  will  not  be  forgot ! 

O  love  that  leaves  alone  ! 
O  love  that  blinds  and  blesses  not ! 

O  love  that  turns  to  stone  ! 
3* 


A   WINTER   EVENING. 

Expecting  him,  her  fancy  talks 

(By  like  and  unlike  set  astir) 
Of  one  of  her  last  summer  walks 

To  ivhere  he  sat  expecting  her. 

T  T  7  E  had  no  sunset  here  to-day, 

Nor  are  there  any  stars  to-night; 
But  all  above  was  pearly  gray 

And  all  beneath  was  silver  white  ; 
And  still  the  snow-flakes  fall  and  fall 

In  silence,  for  the  weary  breeze 
Is  sleeping,  and  no  noise  at  all 

Is  in  the  bushes  or  the   trees, 
On  which  the  snow  lies  like  white  moss, 

Too  light  to  bend  them;  but  the  grass 
Must  be  quite  hidden  all  across 


A    WINTER  EVENING.  31 

The  meadow  through  which  he  will  pass 
Unheard,  unseen,  till  he  is  near 

The  lilac  sparkling  in  the  glow 
Of  this  my  little  lamp,  placed  here 

To  call  him  to  me  through  the  snow. 

'Tis  not  so  very  cold  without ; 

But  here  within  'tis  light  and  warm, 
The  hot  wood  murmurs,  wrapped  about 

By  lithe  long  flames  of  fickle  form  ; 
And  swiftly  running  on,  to  make 

Its  lurking  cuckoo  leap  and  laugh, 
The  clock's  incessant  chatterings  wake 

An  answering  echo  in  behalf 
Of  sweeter  noises  than  its  own  : 

Till,  hearing  them,  I  seem  to  see 
Once  more  the  meadows  overgrown 

With  waving  grass,  and  every  tree 
With  bright  green  leaves  well  woven  close 

To  take  the  sunlight,  and  the  wind 


32  A    WINTER  EVENING. 

Almost  to  take,  that  comes  and  goes 

And  never  quite  makes  up  its  mind. 
And  in  the  meadows  near  and  far, 

With  daisies  and  snapdragon  dight, 
Unanswerable  crickets  are 

Forever  singing  out  of  sight ; 
And  little  flickering  brooks  that  flow 

To  their  own  music   ever,  make 
For  me  a  music  that  I  know — 

How  well  indeed,  who  used  to  take 
The  path  so  often  close  beside 

The  brightest  of  them,  singing  past 
Well-watered  grass  on  either  side, 

Till,  o'er  the  little  bridge  at  last, 
Good-by  to  brook  and  path,  but  not 

Till,  spite  of  all  the  surly  bees 
That  grudge  the  treasure,  I  have  got 

As  many  ear-drops  as  I  please  : 
And  then  the  meadow  ('twas  a  sin 

To  flout  the  quiet  daisies  so), 


A    WINTER  EVENING.  33 

With  scared  grasshoppers  out  and  in 

The  grasses  leaping  as  I  go ; 
Along  the  moss-grown  shaky  wall, 

Across  the  close-nipped  pasture-ground 
Where  only  mulleins  dare  grow  tall, 

And  blackberry  vines  creep  close  around 
The  gray-green  mossy  rocks  that  sleep 

Luxurious  in  the  flattering  light 
Of  sunshine  all  day  long,  and  keep 

Warm  sides  to  feel  of  in  the  night ; 
Past  patient  cows  that  mildly  gaze 

Upon  me  as  I  pass  them  by, 
And  stop  to  fix  a  lock  that  strays, 

And  startle  at  a  far-off  cry ; — 
And  then  a  turn,  and  there  is  naught 

Between  me  and  the  place  I  know 
But  vines  and  bushes  interwrought 

To  make  a  screening  tangle  go 
About  a  green  and  golden  glade, 

Where  'neath  the  appointed  chestnut  tree, 


34  A    WINTER  EVENING. 

And  quaintly  dappled  by  its  shade, 

Who  is  it  I  have  come  to  see  ? 
And  yet,  forsooth,  the  eager  eyes 

Must  cloud  a  little  and  go  astray 
A  moment  with  the  thoughts  that  rise 

Of  many  things,  and  will  have  way, 
Before  I  dare  to  draw  the  screen 

Of  interwoven  leaves  apart 
A  little  way,  and  peer  between, 

And  see  him,  with  as  full  a  heart- 
As  now  I  have  to  see  him  there, 

Behind  my  lilac  in  the  snow 
Peering  at  me,  and  with  an  air 

As  if  a  woman  would  not  know  ! 


A    SPRING    MORNING. 

TT  7  HO  would  have   thought   that  she   could 
be  so  cold — 

So  cold  and  hard,  and  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind  ? 
Oh  she,  whom  it  was  summer  to  behold 

In  midst  of  winter !  when  the  excluded  wind 
Stirred  snow  instead  of  flowers,  and  under  ice 

The  brook  went  blindly,  and  the  boughs  were 

dumb 
Of  song  and  whisper,  and  no  butterflies 

Gleamed  in  the  sunlight,  and  no  bees  were  come, 
Then   she   was   warmth    and   colour    and    sweet 
song, 

And  life  and  light  and  loveliness — Alas ! 
And  now  when  snows  are  melted,  and  ere  long 

All  she  prefigured  will  have  come  to  pass, 
Now  she  herself  is  colder  than  the  snow 
Is  cold,  is  dead — Oh,  how  can  she  be  so ! 


SHADOWS. 

T  T  OW  good  it  is  to  see  once  more 

Green  grasses  turning  gray  before 
The  wilful  blowing  of  the  breeze  ; 
And  here  and  there  from  clouds  and  trees, 
Over  the  moving  meadow,  slow 
The  changing  shadows  glide  and  go ! 

How  good  it  is !  but  as  before, 
No  summer  breezes  any  more 
Shall  blow  about  her  wayward  hair ; 
Nor  any  summer  meadows  wear 
Her  passing  shadow,  passed  away 
With  half  the  brightness  of  the  day. 


A    CHANGE. 

T_T  E  said,  "  Dew  wets 
No  dearer  flowers 

Than  violets  : 

Thro'  long  Spring  hours 

The  wandering  bees 
Prove  all,  and  meet 
No  flowers  so  sweet." 

I  planted  these, 

Whose  perfumed  bloom, 
I  thought  would  please  ; 

And  he,  for  whom 
I  bade  them  grow, — 
Loves  roses  now ! 


38  A    CHANGE. 

God  pity  me ! 
I  cannot  see 

The  end  of  pain. 

The  flowers  I  know 

* 

Bloom  not  in  vain, 
Since  Thou  wilt  care 
To  find  them  fair  : 
But  Thou  art — where? 

Faith  falters  so 
When  Love  grows  dim, 
And  'twas  for  him 

I  bade  them  grow  ! 


AD    FINEM. 

T   WOULD  not  have  believed  it  then, 

If  any  one  had  told  me  so — 
Ere  you  shall  see  his  face  again 
A  year  and  more  shall  go. 

And  let  them  come  again  to-day 

To  pity  me  and  prophesy, 
And  I  will  face  them  all  and  say 

To  all  of  them,  You  lie  ! 

False  prophets  all,  you  lie,  you  lie  ! 

I  will  believe  no  word  but  his; 
Will  say  December  is  July, 

That  Autumn  April  is, 


40  AD  FINEM. 

Rather  than  say  he  has  forgot, 

Or  will  not  come  who  bade  me  wait, 

Who  wait  him  and  accuse  him  not 
Of  being  very  late. 

He  said  that  he  would  come  in  Spring, 
And  I  believed — believe  him  now, 

Though  all  the  birds  have  ceased  to  sing 
And  bare  is  every  bough; 

For  Spring  is  not  till  he  appear, 
Winter  is  not  when  he  is  nigh — 

The  only  Lord  of  all  my  year, 
For  whom  I  live — and  die  ! 


THE    NEW   NARCISSUS. 

f~^  IVEN  up  for  all  the  unprofitable  day, 

O'er  the  ship's  side  that  moves  not  in  her 
place, 

To  lean  and  look  and  languidly  to  trace 
On  the  slow  glass  of  the  receding  bay 
The  troubled  image  of  a  troubled  face ; 
Or,  with  vague  longing  up  and  down  to  pace 
The  narrow  deck,  and  of  the  far-away 
Swift  ships  that  glisten  with  momentary  spray 
Ask  what  avails  a  little  larger  space 
Of  insufficient  ocean, — this  is  he 
Whose  stranded  life,  too  careful  to  be  free, 
No  dreams  deliver,  and  -all  thoughts  betray 
To  hate  the  calm  that  holds  him  in  delay, 

To  doubt  the  wind  that  calls  him  to  the  sea. 
4* 


A   QUESTION 


T)  RIGHT  buds  that  will  not  blow, 

Blown  flowers  that  are  not  sweet, 

Fruits  that  no  man  can  eat, 
Sown  seeds  that  will  not  grow, 

All  men  may  meet. 


Fair  fields  of  fertile  land 

Neglected  utterly, 

Weeds  where  good  grain  should  be, 
Long  stretches  of  ploughed  sand, 

All  men  may  see. 


A   QUESTION.  43 

3- 

Springs  nauseous  to  the  taste, 

Rills  tangled  in  the  grass, 

Wells  breathing  deadly  gas, 
Rivers  that  split  and  waste, 

All  men  may  pass. 

4- 
Words — vain  and  idle  words 

That  vex  the  eager  ear — 

No  more  what  they  appear 
Than  blown  leaves  are  like  birds, 

All  men  may  hear. 

5- 
Paths  circling  in  a  maze, 

Clews  sure  to  break  or  bind, 

Torches  that  burn  and  blind, 
Guides  that  know  not  the  ways, 

All  men  may  find. 


44  A   QUESTION. 

6. 

Ambitions  made  to  fall, 

Hopes  swift  to  come  and  go, 
Dumb  loves  that  chill  like  snow, 

And  friendships  that  enthrall, 
All  men  may  know. 

7- 

Brief  glimpses  of  faint  joys 
Between  long  clouds  of  pain, 
Weak  virtues  that  restrain, 
And  knowledge  that  annoys, 
All  men  may  gain. 

8. 

But  why  with  such  as  these, 
Men  choose  day  after  day 
To  waste  lives  that  they  may 

Make  fruitful  if  they  please 
What  man  can  say? 


PILGRIMAGE. 

7.  Setting  Out. 
OHE  is  so  lovely  that  I  long 

With  all  my  soul  to  sing  one  song 
Before  her,  or  at  least  to  see 
How  heavenly  fair  the  face  must  be 
Of  her,  whom  having  never  seen, 
I  long  for  and  have  called  my  Queen. 

I  go  to  seek  her.     Yes,  to-day 

Shall  be  the  last  of  my  delay : 

I  go  to  seek  her,  journeying  through 

Strange  ways  and  wilds  beloved  of  few, 

But  I  must  see  her  face  before 

My  days  for  wandering  are  o'er. 


46  PILGRIMAGE, 

And  Youth  is  passing.     Ah !    ray  friend, 
Too  soon  the  sunlit  days  will  end; 
Too  soon  the  uninspiring  night 
Will  find  me  needing  other  light 
Than  lights  their  life  who  will  not  gain 
The  pain  of  joy,  the  joy  of  pain ; 

For  of  one  thing  my  soul  is  sure — 
There  is  no  joy  that  can  endure 
Which  is  not  grown  of  pain  indeed. 
So  I  plant  pain,  and  from  that  seed 
Wait  hopeful  ere  the  end  to  gain 
True  joy,  the  flower  of  real  pain. 

True  joy  which  will  endure — you  say; — 
"What  is  it  after  many  a  day 
Of  painful  toil,  if  you  shall  gain 
A  moment's  joy  for  days  of  pain — 
A  little  glimpse  of  her,  and  then 
The  loneliness  and  dark  again?" 


PILGRIMAGE.  47 

But  is  it  so?  Look  up— behold! 
How  all  the  westward  clouds  in  gold 
And  crimson  beauty  take  the  light ! 
And  tho'  in  half  an  hour  the  night 
Will  steal  it  from  me,  still  would  I 
Walk  miles  and  miles  to  see  that  sky. 

And  shall  I  not  walk  miles  and  miles 
Just  once  to  see  her  when  she  smiles? 
Though  she  no  more  belong  to  me 
When  smiling  than  that  sky  I  see, 
Which  yet  seems  somehow  to  shed  down 
A  joy  which  makes  its  gold  my  own  ? 

And  it  is  mine  !  Upon  my  face 
And  in  my  heart  I  wear  its  grace 
So  surely,  that  if  now  to-night 
All  sunsets  end,  yet  there  is  light 
Enough  left  in  my  life,  I  know, 
To  set  the  darkness  all  aglow. 


48  PILGRIMAGE. 

There  is  the  reason !  if  that  sky 
Has  such  a  power  to  beautify 
My  life  that  it  may  after  thence 
Give  beautifying  influence, 
What  may  my  life  not  hope  to  be 
If  Beauty's  self  should  shine  on  me? 

And  so  I  go.     The  pain  is  long? 

And  brief  the  joy?    There  you  are  wrong; 

For  perfect  joy  can  not  be  brief — 

Joy  is  immortal ;  but  for  grief 

Death  lies  in  wait,  and  it  shall  die — 

But  joy  has  all  eternity. 

Ah !  I  am  glad,  for  grief  shall  die, 
And  I  shall  see  true  joy — even  I 
Shall  see  it  and  it  shall  be  mine ; 
And  yours,  my  friend,  for  that  divine 
Full  light  of  life  if  one  man  find 
Is  found  indeed  for  all  mankind. 


PILGRIMAGE.  49 

And  so  I  go.     For  me  and  you 
And  all  the  world  I  seek  that  true 
Full  light  of  joy,  whose  dwelling-place 
Is  in  one  undiscovered  face 
Whose  smile  shall  to  my  soul  supply 
A  life-long  light  to  journey  by, 

Which  I  shall  see :  'tis  but  to  make 
My  life  a  journey  for  her  sake, 
To  follow  where  the  longings  lead, 
And  with  no  guide  but  them  succeed 
In  proving  how  well  spent  they  were, 
The  days  I  lost  in  seeking  her; 

And,  as  it  may  be,  by  the  way 
If  I  sink  wearily  some  day, 
When  most  I  need  it  I  may  see 
The  smiling  face  bent  over  me 
A  moment,  and  then  it  is  gone, 

And  I  walk  on  and  on  alone. 
5 


50  PILGRIMAGE. 

And  not  alone;  the  wished-for  smile 
Shall  keep  me  company  the  while, 
Charm  me  from  harm,  draw  me  away 
From  all  desire  to  stop  or  stray, 
And  make  me  bolder  to  aspire 
By  adding  memory  to  desire. 

And  if  not — still  I  go,  I  go ! 
The  hope  shall  be  enough,  I  know, 
To  save  my  life  from  being  quite 
Devoid  of  loveliness  and  light ; 
It  is  enough  for  me  if  I 
Am  still  pursuing  when  I  die. 

And  so  I  go.     Would  God,  my  friend, 
That  you  were  with  me  to  the  end ! 
But  if  at  last,  and  far  away 
From  where  we  separate  to-day, 
We  meet  each  other  face  to  face, 
It  will  not  seem  a  strange  embrace. 


PILGRIMAGE.  51 


II.  Half    Way. 

i. 
HAS  the  bitterness  found  you? 

Ah!  foolish  to  deem, 
While  the  hills  yet  surround  you 
And  hold  you  and  bound  you, 
That  this  was  your  dream. 

2. 

From  the  fields  that  lie  yonder 

It  gleamed  all  aglow 
With  fresh  beauty  and  wonder, 
Which  seem  passing  under 

Strange  darknesses  now : 


52  PILGRIMAGE. 

3- 

For  you  linger,  mistaking 

The  place  where  you  stand 
For  the  glory,  that  breaking 
All  o'er  it,  was  making 
It  worth  your  demand; 

4- 

Not  the  place,  whose  use  ended 

As  soon  as  'twas  won, 
Allured,  but  the   splendid 
Glad  light  that  ascended 
Inviting  you  on. 

5- 
On  then  !  with  the  Spirit 

Most  restless  in  rest 
That  guides  who  revere  it, 
And  tortures  who  fear  it 

And  hold  it  supprest; 


PILGRIMAGE.  53 

6. 

Unsatisfied  ever 

But  cheerful  to  strive, 
Too  wise  to  dissever 
Joy  from  the  endeavour 

That  keeps  it  alive; 

7- 
Still  seeking  and  learning 

And  seeking  anew, 
Still  winning  and  spurning, 
Upborne  by  the  yearning 

That  bids  it  pursue  ; 

8. 
What  place  shall  restrain  it 

From  always  to  range  ? 
It  strives  but  to  gain  it, 
Outgrow  and  disdain  it, 

Most  constant  to  change. 


54  PILGRIMAGE. 

9- 

Withhold  it  from  ranging, 
And  what  do  you  win  ? 
Your  own  soul  estranging, 
And  outer  strife  changing 
For  discord  within ! 

10. 
And  who  can  restore  you 

The  light  you  have  lost, 
While  the  shadows  lie  o'er  you 
Of  hills  yet  before  you 

That  wait  to  be  crost? 

ii. 

From  the  shadows  that  harm  you, 

Climb,  loving  the  light 
Which  still  shines  to  charm  you 
And  gladden  and  warm  you 
And  guide  you  aright; 


PILGRIMAGE.  55 

12. 
Only  past  hopes  are  hollow  ; 

The  real  remain, 
And  swift-winged  as  the  swallow 
Still  call  you  to  follow 

With  longing  again  — 


Each  something  supplying, 
Lest  any  despond, 

Each  something  denying, 

And  all  testifying 

To  something  beyond. 


56  PILGRIMAGE. 


HI.  Before  the  Gates. 

Too  long  I  wander  lonely  to  and  fro. 

0  loved  and  loving,  whom  I  have  not  seen, 
Declare  yourself,  and  be  indeed  my  Queen — 

To  rule  and  lead  me  where  I  long  to  go. 
For  now  too  weary,  and  almost  in  vain, 

Striving  to  keep  the  old  smile  on  my  face, 
And  make  the  joy  of  others  cure  my  pain, 

1  listen  for  you  in  the  lonely  place, 
Which  grows  more  lonely  as  day  after  day 

Too  swiftly  leaves  me  with  my  wish  denied; 
While  hither,  from  within  the  gates,  there  stray 
Sweet  words  and  laughters — not  so  sweet  as  those 
Which  I  still  dream  of,  where  the  gates  unclose, 

And  we  too  enter  gladly,  side  by  side. 


SIR   GAWAINE'S   LOVE. 

"  Me  lust  not  of  the  caf  ne  of  the  stree, 
Make  so  long  a  tale  as  of  the  corn." 

GUINEVERE. 

T     ET  me  have  all  the  story  from  yourself. 
Was  she  indeed  so  ugly  as  they  say — 
She  whom  I  know  is  now  so  beautiful  ? 

GAWAINE. 

Is  she  not  beautiful? — so  beautiful 
That  I  dare  even  look  upon  your  face, 
And  turn  from  that  to  look  on  hers  again 
And  still  say  it  is  beautiful ! 

GUINEVERE. 

Nay,  nay  ! 
You  make  your  praise  too  serious  a  thing, 


58  SIR    GAWAINPS  LOVE. 

With  that  so  grave  and  earnest  voice  of  yours, 
For  one  to  take  it  without  afterthought 
Of  one's  own  worthiness — tell  me  of  her; 
How  could  you  take  her,  Gawaine  ?  'Tis  a  tale ! 

GAWAINE. 

How  could  I  take  her!    Is  she  not  most  fair? 
And  yet  to  me  it  sometimes  seems  a  dream 
From  which  I  dread  to  wake.     But  it  is  true. 

GUINEVERE. 

Why  so  it  is — that  she  is  beautiful. 
But  was  she  otherwise,  or  if  she  was, 
How  could  you  ever  take  her,  still  I  say. 

GAWAINE. 

To  serve  the  king.  Why,  what  else  could  I  do  ? 
You  know  how  the  king  met  her  and  from  her — 
The  meanest  creature  in  the  world  she  seemed, 
And  yet  the  one  of  whom  he  had  most  need, 


SIR    GAWAINE'S  LOVE  59 

Without  whose  love  his  kingdom  could  not  stand — 
Learned  the  one  way  to  overcome  his  foe  ; 
And  how — for  all  his  kingdom  was  at  stake, 
And  he   was  kingly  in  his  gratitude — 
He  promised  her  that  she    should  ask  and  have 
Her  dearest  wish,  and  how  she  said  at  once  : 
'This  is  my  dearest  and  my  only  wish, 
That  one  of  Arthur's  knights  shall  marry  me.' 

GUINEVERE. 
Too  dear  a  wish  for  such  a  one  as  she ! 

GAWAINE. 

So  he  thought,  looking  sidewise  at  her  face — 
A  face  in  which  no  grace  nor  goodness  showed. 
But  nothing  else  could  tempt  her ;  she  had  wished 
Ansi  he  had  promised — let  him  keep  his  word. 
So  he  rode  back  with  a  most  heavy  heart 
To  find  himself  entrapped  a  second  time, 
And  would  not  speak  at  first;  but  afterward 


60  SfJ?    GAWAIN&S  LOVE. 

To  me,  still  seeking  to  find  out  his  grief, 
That  I  might  somehow  help  him  if  I  could, 
Told    what   had   happened,  and    more    than    he 

ought 
Reproached    himself.     Well,  it    seemed   hard    at 

first, 

And  strange  enough.     But  what  else  could  I  do  ? 
I  saw  no  other  way  and  told  him  so — 
My  life  was  his — • 

GUINEVERE. 

O,  there  it  is  again  ! 
I  cannot  understand  it.     Men  may  die, 
And  so  give  all  their  lives,  but — Gawaine,  no ! 
There  is  no  one  before  his  death  so  cold 
That  he  is  not  devoted  to  some  hope — 
Some  self-tormenting,  secret,  sleepless  hope — 
To  which  he  still  clings  closer  as  the  years, 
The  barren,  lonely  years  too  swiftly  go, 
And  leave  him  looking  still  to  find  his  life — 


SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE.  6 1 

His  life,  his  own  life,  his  true,  real  life, 
Which  still  escapes  him,  and  still  more  and  more 
Is  longed  for,  as  still  more  and  more  the  years 
Go  from  him  unenjoyed,  and  steal  away 
The  precious  future,  so  made  less  and  less, 
And  dearer  as  it  lessens.     Speak  the  truth  ! 
How  can  one  who  has  waited  so  to  live — 
So  much  life  lost,  so  little  left  to  him, 
And  yet  that  little  holding  all  his  life, 
All  that  can  justify  the  fruitless  past 
And  save  from  utter  blankness  all  the  years — 
How  can  one  give  away  that  hope  of  life  ? 

-^^   OP1  THE      "$%L 

GAWAINE. 

He  cannot,  Guinevere,  he  never  does  ; 
And  yet  I  know,  I  know  !     Yes,  and  will  say 
What  I  had  thought  before  to  leave  unsaid ; 
But  all  is  over  now,  both  doubt  and  deed, 
And  you  can  understand  me  why  I  speak. — 

How  long  ago  it  seems,  two  days  ago  ! 
6 


62  SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE. 

A  day  to  be  remembered  for  itself, 
A  bright  Spring  day,  and  all  the  earth  was  new 
With  growing  grass  and  beautiful  bright,  leaves 
And  brighter  skies  and  the  swift  flight  of  birds 
Not  swifter  than  their  singing — what  a  day  ! 
Which  took  me,  charmed  to  follow,  to  itself, 
And  led  me  from  the  garden — where  the  rest 
Welcomed  the  Spring  with  smiles  and  whispered 

words — 

Beyond  the  palace  to  the  wider  fields, 
Where  overhead  the  sky  was  broad  and  deep, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  a  sunlit  world 
Lay  open  to  my  senses  and  my  soul. 
And  seeing  beauty  grow  in  everything, 
And  all  things  fairer  because  each  was  fair, 
And  glad  to  see  it  all,  what  wonder  then 
That  I  should  think  no  less  of  my  own  life 
Than  that  it  also  might  be  beautiful  ? 
And  thinking  thus  I  saw  the  sun  go  down, 
And  in  the  fulfilled  brightness  of  the  West 


SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE.  63 

Seemed  to  behold  the  light  of  some  great  joy — 
The  proof  and  the  reward  of  real  life, 
Which  I  should  gain,  not  for  myself  alone, 
But  for  myself  and  through  me  for  the  world. 
So  all  my  life,  my  waiting,  and  my  hope 
Seemed  justified,  and  I  could  still  wait  on, 
Trusting  the  hope  that  made  me  think  and  say : 
Surely,  no  one  who  bravely  longs  to  live, 
And  bravely  works  and  waits  for  it,  shall  fail 
To  win  his  life  from  the  reluctant  years — 
His  life,  of  which  joy  surely  shall  be  part. 

So  I  stood  thinking  there,  and  with  the  thought 
Uprose  the  old  love  of  my  life  again, 
More  beautiful  than  ever — the  old  love 
I  never  dared  confess  to  any  one, 
And  hardly  to  myself,  so  dear  it  was  ; 
And  so  most  fearful  was  I  lest  my  soul, 
Seeking  too  clearly  to  define  its  hope, 
Should  feel  itself  outgrown  by  its  desire, 


64  SIR   GAWAIN&S  LOVE. 

And  darkened  in  the  shadow  of  its  dream. 
But  now — set  face  to  face  with  such  a  sky, 
While  round  me  all  the  noises  of  the  day 
Ceased,  save  one  long,  low  murmur  of  deep  joy, 
To  me  the  highest  hope  seemed  surest,  as  it  is— 
When  lo  !  even  as  I  said  so,  a  dark  shape 
Between  me  and  the  gladness  of  the  gold ! 
The  King,  dusty  and  travel-worn  and  sad — 
The  King,  a  messenger  from  her  who  knew 
The  very  answer  to  my  soul's  desire; 
But  then  we  knew  it  not. 

'Tis  hard  to  say 

How  much  perhaps  the  habit,  learned  of  old, 
To  do  whatever  work  there  was  to  do, 
Unasking  my  own  safety  or  desire, 
Saved  me  from  being  overborne  by  doubt ; 
But  without  hesitation — nay,  indeed, 
Almost  with  eagerness — so  cold  a  dread 
Of  lurking  cowardice  came  over  me — 
I  bade  the  King  at  once  be  of  good  cheer, 


SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE.  65 

For  was  my  life  not  his — all  of  my  life  ? 

So  I  said  easily  enough,  why  not  ? 

Just  as  one  suddenly  waked  up  at  night 

Mechanically  reaches  for  his  sword, 

And  stands  on  guard  and  shudders  afterward. 

But   as   the    words   slipped   from    me   and   were 

gone, 

They  seemed  to  hang  before  me  like  a  cloud, 
Thick,  black,  impassable,  through  which  no  light 
Of  earth  or  heaven  could  find  me  any  more. 
And  bitterer  came  after,  for  the  King, 
Touching  unconsciously  the  wound  that  I 
Kept  hardly  hidden  from  him,  said  at  once, 
'Better  that  I  and  all  my  Kingdom  fail, 
Than  that  your  life  be  dwarfed  in  saving  it. 
Shall  I,  who  know  how  hard  it  is  to  live — 
Shall  I  keep  you  from  living  all  your  life  ? 
Shall  I,  who  know  how  even  another's  sin 
Poisons  the  purest  life,  give  you  away 
To  mere  infection,  shutting  out  your  youth 


66  SIR    GAWAINES  LOVE. 

From  all  the  quickening  health  and  help  of  love 
Which  all  men  need,  the  noblest  most  of  all  ? ' 

That  was  the  painfullest,  for  every  word, 

Too  apt  an  ally  to  my  doubtful  fear, 

Struck  me  and  stung  me  like  so  many  sparks 

Of  biting  fire  upon  the  naked  flesh. 

Even  now  I  feel  them,  and  remember  how 

I  shrank,  and  hastily,  to  hide  my  pain, 

Said  what  I  hardly  know,  for  all  the  world 

Seemed  unsubstantial  in  the  utter  dark, 

And  there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do 

But  cling  in  very  loneliness  of  soul 

To  this  one  dreadful  chance  of  doing  well ; 

Lest,  letting  go  my  hold  of  that,  the  earth 

Should  slide  from  under  me  and  I  be  lost 

For,  yes !  that  was  what  saved  me — to  hold  fast 

To  that  true  law  of  life,  proved  always  sure, 

But  hard  to  prove  though  easy  to  believe, 

That  he  lives  best  and  makes  most  of  his  life 


SIR    GAWAINES  LOVE.  67 

Who  puts  it  to  most  use.     Use  is  the  life  of  life, 
And  who  most  uses  it  most  saves  his  life. 
There  I  was  safe,  and  clinging  fast  to  that 
The  cloud  passed  over  me,  strong  to  dismay 
But  not  to  conquer.     Then  I  saw  and  knew 
The  meaning  and  the  worth  of  what  we  seek ; 
'Tis  not  so  much  to  enjoy  as  to  desire. 
Joy  is  a  necessary  part  of  life ; 
But  the  best  joy,  the  surest,  fertilest, 
Is  not  that  which  allures  us  from  without, 
But    that   which    springs    and   grows    within   our 
selves — 

The  joy  which  we  create  within  ourselves 
And  are  ourselves  the  rulers  of — not  that 
Which  would  rule  over  us,  and  make  our  souls 
Mere  restless  slaves  of  fickle  influence. 
Was  it  a  loss  then  for  me  to  let  go 
The  outer  vague,  uncertain  dreams  and  hopes? 
Since  to  lose  them  was  but  to  find  myself, 
And  give  my  soul  its  rightful  place  again 


68  SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE. 

Of  lordly  rule,  and  be  at  last  a  man 

Strong  in  myself  without  external  aid, 

And  so  sure  of  my  life  I  need  no  more 

Weigh  nicely  all  its  uses,  but  be  free 

To  use  it  everywhere  and  every  day, 

As  common  as  my  sword,  finding  my  work 

The  common  work,  my  joy  the  joy  of  all, 

And  so  beside  my  own  possessing  all, 

With  no  dread  now  of  being  called  upon 

For  painful  sacrifice,  because  I  gain 

The  glad  indifference  of  heroic  hearts, 

Who  prove  all  things  and  hold  fast  what  is  good. 

Ah  !  how  the  sky  grew  clear,  and  from  my  eyes 

The     mists    were     blown     abroad     before     that 

thought 

As  from  a  cheerful  breeze,  and  all  the  stars 
Came  forth,   gleamed  clear,  and  in  the  stainless 

sky 

Glided  to  music,  and  my  soul  was  glad 
With  a  new  sense  of  freedom  and  a  new 


SIR    GAWAINES  LOVE.  69 

And  dearer  love  of  life,  meant  to  be  made 
A  sure  succession  of  productive  days, 
An  infinite  pursuit,  which,  rightly  urged, 
Wins  always,  and  can  never  be  outworn. 
But  now  I  tire  you. 

GUINEVERE. 

No  !  you  puzzle  me. 
But  after  sunset  is  there  not  the  night  ? 

GAWAINE. 

And  stars — did  I  not  say  the  stars  were  out, 
Supreme  above  the  trouble  of  the  clouds  ? 
Forgive  my  boasting,  but  I  half  forget, 
Thinking  of  her,  the  end  that  might  have  been. 

GUINEVERE. 

You  are  Gawaine,  and  I  am  Guinevere — 
But  tell  me  how  it  ended. 


70  SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE. 

GAWAINE. 

The  next  day 

The  King  and  Tristram,   Launcelot  and  Kay, 
And  more,  not  many,  with  us,  we  rode  forth 
In  the  first  freshness  of  the  early  morn 
To  where  the  King  had  met  her — not  in  vain. 
There  is  a  place,  apart  from  any  way, 
Hard  by  the  forest,  where  an  oak  tree  grows 
Quite  all  alone,  but  that  it  overhangs 
A  single  holly,  and  mid-way  between 
The  oak,  just  won  to  put  away  at  last 
His  barren  doubt  and  from  the  genial  Spring 
Withhold  no  one  of  all  his  tender  leaves, 
And  the  low  holly  that  all  winter  long 
Can  keep  alive  its  strange  suggestive  green, 
There  she  was  sitting  on  the  ground.     Ah  me  ! 
It  was  too  bitter  to  see  such  a  thing 
Blacken  the  brightness  of  the  cheerful  sky 
And  make  the  world  a  failure  ;  and  for  this — 
Was  it  for  this  I  had  reserved  myself? 


SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE.  71 

Foregone  so  much  for  this — for  this  so  long 
Borne  with  delay,  and  through  the  lonely  years 
Scorned  not  the  lesson  of  their  loneliness  ? 
A  bitter  fruit  to  gather  at  the  last ! 
I  think  I  must  have  shown  it  in  my  face 
More  than  I  should,  the  pain  that  took  me  then 
As  I  stood  motionless,  with  eyes  withdrawn 
From  all  the  world  but  that  which  made  it  sad ; 
For  all  at  once  I  heard,  as  if  it  were 
The  fatal  echo  of  my  speechless  thought, 
The  voice  of  Launcelot,  that  said,  Alas ! 
And  at  the  words,  so  full  of  piteous  love, 
My  heart  was  softened  to  remember  now 
The  knighthood  that  I  boasted,  and  my  eyes 
Made  clear  to  see  how  much  more  want  there  was 
Of  love  and  pity  in  this  wretched  one, 
From  whom,  because  hers  was  so  great  a  need, 
Men  turned  away  and  could  not  pity  her. 
And  by  what  right,  I  could  but  ask  myself — 
By  what  right  was  this  woman  quite  cut  off 


72  SIR    GAWAINE'S  LOVE. 

From  any  touch  of  kindly  human  hands, 
Quite  thrust  apart  from  all    mankind,  to  whom, 
However  base,  she  was  more  near  akin 
Than  to  the  gracious  sunlight  and  the  breeze, 
That  had  no  more  of  scorn  nor  less  of  love 
For  her  than  for  another  ?   By  what  right 
Was  she  unlovely?   And  why  could  I  not 
Avoid  a  sense  of  shame,  unfelt  before, 
That  made  me  guilty  of  her  wretchedness, 
As  each  by  each  the  questions  that  I  asked 
Were  sternly  left  unanswered?    From  that  time 
I  knew  that  over  all  my  life  henceforth 
She  had  a  power.     And,  shall  I  tell  you  all?  — 
I  know  not  why,  but  I  was  glad  of  it ; 
And  irresistibly  drawn  down  at  once 
To  look  upon  her  face,  at  once  I  saw 
(This  is  a  strange  thing  that  I  tell  you  of) — 
But  looking  down  I  saw  within  her  eyes 
The  same  desire  that  lived  within  my  own, 
But  much  more  patient,  as  if  more  secure, 


SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE.  73 

A  long  desire  that  questioned  all  it  saw, 
That  questioned  me  with  a  prevailing  look, 
As  if  in  judgment  of  me  ;  or  again, 
As  if  imploring  me  as  much  or  more 
For  my  sake  than  for  hers,  to  let  my  heart 
Not  close  itself  against  the  eager  wish 
Which  seized  me  suddenly,  with  more  of  love 
Than  pity  of  her,  to  stoop  swiftly  down 
And  lift  and  kiss  her  quickly  on  the  mouth ! 

(A  voice  from  the  hall,  singing.) 

After  the  fight! 
Then  let  Love  look  upon  me, 

When  I  am  proved  a  knight 

Worthy  to  bear  the  sight 
Of  her  whose  love  has  won  me — 
Then  let  Love  look  upon  me, 

After  the  fight  / 

GAWAINE. 

Launcelot's  song — what  a  glad  voice  he  has ! 
7 


74  SIR    GAWAIN&S  LOVE. 

(From  the  hall) 

After  the  fight! 
Then  let  me  be  rewarded, 

When  I  am  proved  a  knight 

Worthy  to  wear  aright 
Her  favour  bravely  guarded- 
Then  let  me  be  rewarded, 

After  the  fight! 

GUINEVERE. 
And  you  proved  knight   who   fought  so  well  for 

her; 

You  too  are  well  rewarded,  are  you  not? 
And  there  she  is — see,  in  the  garden  now. 
And  you  can  no  more  now  resist  her  eyes 
Than  on  that  morning.     Well,  then,  you  shall  go. 
Thanks  for  so  glad  a  story. 

'Gawaine  goes  out.) 

Would  there  were 

Some  one  in  all  the  world  to  kiss  me  so — 
If  only  Launcelot  were  also  saved ! 


HER   NAME. 

T    THINK  her  true  name  must  be  Marguerite, 

So  bright  she  is  and  so  serenely  sweet, 
This  girl  I  never  spoke  to ;    and  have  seen 
Twice,  and  twice  only ;  once  as  o'er  the  green 
She  walked  to  church,  and  once  just  now  as  she 
Met  and  passed  by,  and  never  thought  of  me, 
Who  smiled  to  think  how  all  the  dusty  street 
Seemed   like    fresh   fields,  and    murmured   Mar 
guerite  ! 


IN    WINTER. 

T  T  7  HAT  will  you  give  ?  you  seem  to  ask,  and  I 
What  can  I  give  you  ?  answer,  and  am  sad ; 
For  what  is  left  of  lovely  that  I  had? 
Or  what  of  sweet  will  not  the  days  deny 
To  let  me  gain  and  give  you  by-and-bye  ? 
O  Love  !  O  Love  !  what  was  it  that  forbade 
To  ask  of  me  while  yet  I  could  be  glad 
To  hear  you  ask  it,  and  to  make  reply? 
For  Spring  was  warm,  and  Summer  all  aglow, 
Autumn  not  cold,  and  not  too  quick  to  tire; 
But  of  the  Winter  if  you  will  inquire, 
What  can  it  do  for  you  but  sigh  and  show, 
Still  rustling  faintly  over  so  much  snow, 
The  ungathered  flowers  of  my  too  long  desire  ? 


GREENHOUSE    FLOWERS. 

J  'THIS  too  late  to  find  her  flowers 

Such  as  I  should  rather  give — 
Such  as  sad  and  sunlit  hours 
Equally  have  taught  to  live. 

How  can  these,  that  never  guessed 
How  the  evil  helps  the  good — 

How  can  these  to  her  suggest 

Aught  of  what  I    wish  they  could  ? 

How  can  these  that  never  felt 

Doubt  and  fear  and  hope  deferred, 
Ere  the  snows  began  to  melt, 

Ere  the  frozen  earth  was  stirred; 
7* 


78  GREENHOUSE  FLOWERS. 

How  can  these  that  never  thrilled 
In  the  midst  of  their  distress, 

With  the  hope  of  hope  fulfilled — 
How  can  these  my  thought  express  ? 

Yet,  because  perhaps  they  may 
Please  her  once  or  twice  to  see, 

Let  them  go  and  have  their  day, 
Happier  than  they  ought  to  be  ! 


TILL   SPRING. 


i 


N  frozen  earth, 
Beneath  the  snow, 
A  wondrous  birth 
Is  lurking  now ; 


I  lay  my  ear 

Against  the  ground, 
I  cannot  hear 

The  slightest  sound. 

No  sound  is  heard; 

The  hard  and  bare 
Earth  is  not  stirred, 

Yet  they  are  there ; 


8o  TILL  SPRING. 

Not  very  far — 
Far  under  these 

Cold  snows  they  are, 
My  crocuses ! 

Are  there  beneath 
The  ice  and  snow, 

And  live  and  breathe, 
And  feel  and  grow, 

With  a  sublime 
Belief  in  Fate — 

They  know  their  time, 
And  can  await, 

Upgrowing  still, 

Though  still  unheard 

Or  felt  until 

The  earth  is  stirred, 


TILL   SPRING.  8 1 

And  opes,  and  lo  ! 

How  slight  a  thing 
Can  shame  the  snow 

And  prove  the  Spring ! 

I  lay  my  ear 

Against  the  ground, 
I  cannot  hear 

The  slightest  sound; 

And  yet,  not  far — 

Far  under  these 
'Cold  snows,  there  are 

Warm  crocuses. 

Ah!  little  call 

Were  there  for  doubt, 
If  flowers  were  all 
I  cared  about ! 


82  TILL   SPRING. 

If  every  thing 
I  think  of  were 

Not  swift  to  bring 
Me  thoughts  of  her ; 

If  while  I  say, 

Would  March  were  o'er 
I  did  not  pray 

For  something  more ; 

If  while  I  watch 
The  frozen  ground, 

And  strive  to  catch 
Some  little  sound 

Of  life  astir 

Beneath  the  frost, 

'Twere  not  of  her 
I  think  the  most; 


TILL  SPRING.  83 

If  while  I  say, 

Soon  must  the  snows 
Melt  and  make  way, 

And  let  unclose 

Sweet  flowers  that  brood 

In  secret  now — 
I  only  could 

Forget  somehow, 

Somehow  forego 

The  old  demur, — 
Will  it  be  so 

With  her,  with  her? 


T 


IN   NUBIBUS. 

HIS  is  a  dream  I  had  of  her 
When  in  the  middle  seas  we  were. 


Sunlight  possessed  the  clouds  again, 
Well  emptied  of  unfruitful  rain, 
When,  leaning  o'er  the  vessel's  side, 
I  watched  the  bubbles  rise  and  glide 
And  break  and  pass  away  beneath  ; 
And  heard  the  creamy  waters  seethe, 
As  when  an  undecided  breeze 
Plays  in  the  branches  of  the  trees 
Just  ere  the  leaves  begin  to  fall ; 
And  as  I  listened,  slowly  all 
The-  elm-tree  branches  on  the  Green 
Rose  up  before  me ;  and  between 
The  stately  trees  on  either  side 
I  saw  the  pathway,  smooth  and  wide, 
In  which  I  once  had  walked  with  her ; 


IN  NUB  IB  US.  85 

And  in  it  men  and  women  were, 
Who  came  and  went  no  otherwise 
Than  vague  cloud-shadows  to  my  eyes, 
And  whispering  bubbles  to  my  ear, 
Who  neither  cared  to  see  nor  hear, 
And  straight  forgot  them  every  one. 

But  when  the  last  of  them  was  gone, 
And  now  from  end  to  end  the  walk 
Was  empty  of  them  and  their  talk, 
A  listening,  longing  silence  fell 
Upon  the  elm-trees  like  a  spell 
Of  expectation  and  desire, 
And  quick  I  saw  the  impulsive  fire 
Of  sunset  overflush  the  white 
And  waiting  clouds  with  rosy  light; 
And  then  a  breeze  ran  all  along 
The  pathway,  as  if  from  a  song- 
Imparting  freshness  as  it  ran, 

Till  all  the  autumn  leaves  began 
8 


86  IN  NUB  IB  US. 

Mid-summer  murmurs  in  the  air, 
And  suddenly  I  saw  her  there — 
And  felt  my  heart  leap  up,  and  then 
As  suddenly  shrink  back  again 
To  see  that  she  was  not  alone  ; 
But  with  her  walking  there  was  one 
Whose  face  turned  sidewise,  as  it  were 
The  better  so  to  hark  to  her, 
Showed  not  enough  to  let  me  know 
What  man  it  was  I  envied  so : 
And  yet  I  could  not  go  away, 
But  fascinated  still  to  stay, 
And  wait  till  they  should  pass  me  by, 
I  stood  and  watched  them  cloudily, 
And  saw  them  coming  near  and  near, 
And  nearer  yet,  till  I  could  hear 
Her  voice  and  recognize  his  face; 
And,  save  that  a  transmitted  grace 
Made  it  not  easy  to  be  known, 
So  went  the  dream — it  was  my  own. 


A   PAUSE. 

r  I  ^O  have  the  imploring  hands  of  her 

Clasped  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  cheek 
Brushed  over  slowly  by  the  stir 

Of  thrilling  hair,  and  not  to  speak  ; 

To  see  within  the  unlifted  eyes 
More  than  the  fallen  fringes  prove 

Enough  to  hide,  to  see  the  rise 

Of  tear-drops  in  them,  and  not  move ; 

Would  this  be  strange?    And  yet  at  last, 
What  weary  man  may  not  do  this, 

Seeing  when  the  long  pursuit  is  past, 
To  only  cease  how  sweet  it  is? 


5  A   PAUSE. 

To  only  cease  and  be  as  one 

Who,  when  the  fever  leaves  him,  lies 

Careless  of  what  is  come  or  gone, 
Which  yet  he  cannot  realize  ; 

For  all  his  little  thought  is  spent 
In  wondering  what  it  was  that  gave 

To  be  so  quiet  and  content, 

While  yet  he  is  not  in  the  grave. 


TOO   LATE. 

"IT^V  REAMING   again,     I  dreamed  she  kissed 

me  dead 

Who  would  not  kiss  me  living;  not  less  cold 
Grew  the  mute  lips ;  nor  could  the  wilful  gold, 
Brushing  against  them  from  the  bended  head, 
Warm  the  wan  cheeks  to  any  show  of  red ; 
Nor  could  the  touch  of  falling  tears  withhold 
The  heavy  eyes  from  slumber,  uncontrolled 
By  longing  any  longer ;  but,  instead, 
The  sleepless  soul  she  could  not  see  to  save 
Stood  close  to  her  with  eager  envious  eyes, 
To  see  death  rob  him  of  the  tardy  prize, 
And  waste  the  precious  kisses  that  she  gave, 
Only  at  last  to  prove  at  such  a  cost 

How  sweet  is  life  to  him  whose  life  is  lost ! 
8* 


AUTUMN    SONG. 

TT  7  HAT  have  rustling  leaves  to  say, 

Fit  to  make  us  sad  or  glad? 
Ere  the  wind  blew  us  away, 
Much  delight  in  life  we  had. 

Now  we  both  of  us  are  sad, 
Both  of  us  would  death  defer — 

You,  because  you  are  not  glad, 
We,  because  we  always  were. 

This  is  what  the  brown  leaves  say, 
With  a  sadness  less  than  mine  : 

Dear,  if  I  should  die  to-day, 
Give  me  something  to  resign. 


UNDERSONG. 

"\T  7HILE  I  linger  in  her  room, 

Singing  idly  at  her  feet, 
Si  douce  est  la  Marguerite, 
Are  the  clover  blossoms  sweet? 
Are  the  apple-trees  in  bloom, 
While  I  linger  in  her  room  ? 

Is  there  murmuring  of  bees 
While  I  murmur  at  her  feet, 
Si  douce  est  la  Marguerite? 
Is  there  singing  swift  and  sweet 
By  the  brook-side,  in  the  trees? 
Is  there  murmuring  of  bees? 


UNDERSONG. 

In  the  springtime  of  the  year, 
Sitting  singing  at  her  feet, 
Si  douce  est  la  Marguerite, 
Is  there  then  no  other  sweet 
Thing  to  see  or  have  or  hear 
In  the  springtime  of  the  year? 


A    PRODIGAL. 


r  I  ^HESE  are  the  fields  by  which  we  went 
Few  flowers,  if  any,  then  there  were ; 
The  grasshoppers  had  almost  spent 

Their  singing  when  I  walked  with  her ; 


The  gold  and  crimson  glow  that  was 
Among  the  woods  was    soon  to  die  ; 

Dead  leaves  were  on  the  failing  grass, 
And  no  birds  then  to  sing  or  fly: 

"And  let  there  be  no  flowers,"  I  said, 
"And  let  the  last  leaf  fade  and  fall ! 

When  all  their  grace  and  charm  are  fled, 
What  matter,  since  she  has  them  all? 


94  A  PRODIGAL. 

"What  matter,  since  no  song-bird  gives 
Such  pleasure  as  to  hear  her  speak, 

Since  in  no  flower  the  colour  lives 
So  pure  and  sure  as  in  her  cheek? 

"  Since  not  the  calmest  lake  receives 
From  bird  or  flower  a  lovelier  fleck 

Of  shadow  than  her  ear-ring  leaves 
u.  Upon  the  whiteness  of  her  neck  ? 

"  Since  all  the  stir  of  rustling  trees, 
Or  waving  grass,  to  me  is  less 

Than  to  be  near  her  when  the  breeze 
Plays  with  her  hair  and  with  her  dress? 

"  Since  all  that  I  have  seen  or  sought 
Or  hoped  or  dreamed  I  find  at  last 

In  her  harmoniously  enwrought, 

And  by  a  special  charm  surpassed  ?  " 


A   PRODIGAL.  95 

The  last  leaf  took  not  long  to  fall, 

The  last  flower  faded  long  ago, 
The  grass  cannot  be  seen  at  all, 

Quite  overfallen  with  frozen  snow ; 

Only  the  breeze  that  blew  her  dress 
Seems  still  the  same  as  on  that  day ; 

As  then,  so  it  is  now  no  less 
The  voice  of  all  I  cannot  say  : 

As  then  its  murmur  did  not  fail 

All  my  unthrifty  hope  to  share, 
So  now  with  its  most  lonely  wail 

How  well  it  echoes  my  despair! 


MAGGIOR   DOLORE. 

T^ORGIVE  you?    Yes,  why  not? 

Forget  you  ?  Would  I  could, 
With  all  the  rest  that  should 
But  will  not  be  forgot  ! 

The  longings  that  outlive 

The  hopes  that  you  have  slain  ; 
All  that  I  could  not  gain, 

And  all  you  would  not  give. 

But  you  have  given  me  quite 

Too  much,  whose  hands  withhold 
None  of  the  gloom  and  cold — 

But  all  the  sleep  of  night ; 


MAGGIOR    DO  LORE.  9? 

Of  night  that  sees  aghast 

How  few  things  to  regret, 

How  many  to  forget 
The  barren  days  amassed  : 

For  what  is  worse  than  this — 
Than  to  have  never  had 
The  joy  that  makes  men  sad 

To  know  how  brief  it  is  ? 

Than  to  have  never  known 

The  one  delight  well  worth 

A  man's  grief  in  the  earth 
When  it  is  overgrown  ? 

Than  to  be  forced  to  choose 
The  grief  without  the  cause  — 
Than  to  lament  not  loss, 

But  want  of  what  to  lose  ? 
9 


98  MAGGTOR  DO  LORE. 

Than  to  be  one  who  is 

Forbidden  of  Love  to  dwell 
In  either  Heaven  or  Hell — 

What  can  be  worse  than  this  ? 

Ah  !  it  were  not  too  hard, 
If  you  had  let  me  live, 
To  bless  you,  not  forgive, 

Whate'er  were  afterward ; 

To  say,  and  say  it  glad, — 
Because  you  loved  before, 
Do  this  to  me,  and  more  ! 

To  lose  is  to  have  had. 


GONE. 

T  T  7HY  have  they  lighted 

The  empty  room? 
Since  she  has  left  it, 

Black  night  and  gloom 
Should  have  it  wholly — 

Its  walls,  its  floor, 
Its  lifeless  window, 

Its  useless  door. 

I  stand  without  it 

And  see,  alas  !' 
Too  much,  too  little 

Of  all  that  was ; 
Her  books,  her  pictures, 

Her  empty  chair — 

O,  hide  them  from  me ! 

She  is  not  there. 


100  GONE. 

Draw  close  the  curtains, 

Put  out  the  light; 
Let  darkness  enter 

And  have  from  sight 
What  once  was  precious 

And  now  is  vain — 
Once  full  of  pleasure 

And  now  of  joain  ! 

Draw  close  and  cover 

The  cheat,  the  change, 
The  sweet  grown  bitter, 

The  dear  things  strange ; 
With  such  a  darkness 

As  is  in  me, 
Conceal  and  cover 

The  mockery  ! 


THE   MORAL. 

play  is  ended  ?    Be  it  so  ! 
What  use  to  criticise  ? 
And  yet,  perhaps  'twere  well  to  know 
What  moral  underlies. 

For,  as  I  read  it,  it  is  such 

As  both  may  ponder  o'er ; 
Had  I  not  loved  you  quite  so  much, 

You  might  have  loved  me  more. 
9* 


THE   END. 


*  I  ^*HE  sweetest  songs  are  those 

That  few  men  ever  hear 
And  no  men  ever  sing ; 


The  clearest  skies  are  those 

That  furthest  off  appear 
To  birds  of  strongest  wing  ; 

The  dearest  loves  are  those 

That  no  man  can  come  near 
With  his  best  following. 


PART     SECOND. 


WITH  NATURE. 


VITA   VITALIS. 
I. 

"\T  7HEN  first  the  Spring  grasses 

Take  motion,  and  glisten 
In  sun-litten  masses, 
Wherethrough  the  brook  passes 

And  shimmers  and  sings  ; 
When  first  the  birds  woo  me 

To  linger  and  listen, 
And  watch  them  upspringing 

On  wonderful  wings ; 
When  breezes  are  bringing 
Sweet  scents  to  renew  me, 
Sweet  sounds  thrilling  through  me, 

From  apple  blooms  over 

The  blossoming  clover, 
Where  bees  murmur,  clinging 


io6  VITA    VITALIS. 

With  passionate  pleasure, 
And  butterflies  wander 

In  silence,  at  leisure, 
Like  spirits  that  ponder 

Inscrutable  things; — 

Then  always  and  ever, 
Despite  my  endeavour 

To  'scape  its  control, 
Some  inflowing  sadness 
Discolours  the  gladness 

That  freshens  my  soul; 
Some  answerless  question, 
Some  subtile  suggestion, 

Some  shyly  returning 
Unsought  recollection; 
Some  eager  projection 

Of  vague  undiscerning, 

But  passionate  yearning ; 
A  hoping,  regretting, 


VITA    VITALIS.  107 

Remembering,  forgetting ; 
A  groping,  a  reaching, 
Demanding,  beseeching ; 
A  strangeness,  a  clearness, 
A  distance,  a  nearness; 
Perplexes,  excites  me, 
Repels  me,  invites  me 
And  fills  me  with  fear : 

With  fear  of  foregoing 
My  life  without  knowing 

The  life  that  without  me, 

Above  me,  about  me, 
Is  ceaselessly  flowing 

So  near  me,  so  near  !  — 
So  near,  and  yet  ever 
Beyond  my  endeavour 
To  woo  it  and  win  it, 
To  have  it  and  be  it, 
To  lose  myself  in  it. 


io8  VITA    VITALIS. 

I  only  can  see  it, 
And  feel  it  and  hear  it, 
And  love  it  and  fear  it, 

So  willing  to  bless  me, 

So  stern  to  repress  me. 
What  is  it — what  is  it 
Which  makes  me  to  miss  it, 
And  only  to  miss  it? 

What  charm  to  be  spoken? 

What  spell  to  be  broken, 
Before  I  regain  it 
Once  more,  or  attain  it 
At  last,  and  inherit 

And  hold  as  securely 
As  any  of  these, 
The  life  that  my  spirit 

Remembers  obscurely, 
Obscurely  foresees? 


VITA    VI T ALTS.  109 

II. 

Winged  spirits,  that  wander 
In  silence  and  ponder 

Inscrutable  things, 
Ah !  why  do  ye  shun  me  ? 
Float  over,  light  on  me, 
O  touch  me  and  thrill  me, 
With  watchfulness  fill  me  ! 
Nay!  fan  me  and  still  me, 

Ye  wonderful  wings, 
To  slumber,  if  only, 
Me  sleeping,  my  lonely 

Shy  spirit,  who  knew  you 

Once  haply,  can  woo  you 

To  take  her  unto  you 
Once  more  where  ye  wander 
In  silence  and  ponder 

Inscrutable  things! 


A  DAY. 


i. 

T  T  7 HERE  but  few  feet  ever  stray. 

Far  beyond  the  path's  advances, 
All  alone  an  idler  lay 
Half  a  breezy  summer  day 

Underneath  a  chestnut's  branches ; 


2. 

Not  a  stranger  to  the  place, 

For  the  daisies  nodded  to  him, 
And  the  grass  in  lines  of  grace 
Bending  over,  touched  his  face 

With  light  kisses  thrilling  through  him. 


A  DAY.  H 

3- 

Close  beside  his  harmless  hand 

Swinging  bees  would  suck  the  clover, 

And  a  moment  to  be  scanned 

Sunlit  butterflies  expand 

Easy  wings  to  bear  them  over. 

4- 

All  about  him,  full  of  glee, 

Careless  cricket-songs  were  ringing, 
And  the  wild  birds  in  the  tree 
Settled  down  where  he  could  see 

While  he  heard  them  gayly  singing. 

5- 
Overhead  he  saw  the  trees 

Nod  and  beckon  to  each  other, 
And,  too  glad  to  be  at  ease, 
Saw  the  green  leaves  in  the  breeze 

Tingle  touching  one  another  \ 
10 


H2  A   DAY. 

6. 

Saw  the  little  lonely  rill 

In  a  line  of  greener  growing, 
Slipping  downward  from  the  hill, 
Curving  here  and  there  at  will, 

Through  the  tangled  grasses  going; 

7- 

Saw  the  play  about  his  feet 

Of  the  flickering  light  and  shadow; 
Saw  the  sunlight  go  to  meet 
Glancing  corn  and  waving  wheat ; 
Saw  the  mowers  in  the  meadow ; 

8. 

Saw  the  waves  leap  up  and  play 

On  the  palpitating  river, 
Flowing  out  to  find  the  bay, 
And  the  white  ships  far  away 

Sailing  on  and  on  forever ; 


A  DAY.  113 

9- 

Saw  the  hills  upon  whose  side 
Slow  cloud-shadows  love  to  dally ; 

Saw  the  high  hills,  with  the  pride 

Of  dark  forests  belted  wide, 
Over  many  a  misty  valley ; 

10. 
Saw  far-off  the  thin  and  steep 

Cloudy  mountain-lands  of  wonder, 
Where  unseen  the  torrents  leap 
Over  rifted  rocks  that  keep 

Echoing  memories  of  the  thunder ; 

ii. 

Saw  the  self-supporting  sky 

Ever  more  and  more  receding ; 
Loth  to  linger,  loth  to  fly, 
Saw  the  clouds  go  floating  by, 

Stranger  shapes  to  strange  succeeding ; 
10* 


114  A  DAY. 

12. 

Saw  and  mused  and  went  away, 

Whether  light  or  heavy  hearted, 
It  were  hard  for  him  to  say, 
For  a  something  came  that  day 
And  a  something  had  departed; 


And  his  soul  was  overfraught 
With  a  passion  e'er  returning; 

With  the  pain  that  comes  unsought 

Of  unutterable  thought, 

And  the  restlessness  of  yearning. 


THE   RIVER. 

T~\AY  after  day 

I  see  the  sunlit  river 
Float  slowly  on  its  way 

Thro'  pleasant  fields  that  never 
Can  charm  it  to  delay, 
Day  after  day. 

Day  after  day 

It  thrills  as  on  its  bosom 
The  shifting  shadows  play 

Of  leaf,  and  bud,  and  blossom, 
But  still  keeps  on  its  way 
Day  after  day. 


II 6  THE  RIVER. 

Day  after  day 

It  answers  with  its  singing 
Blithe  birds  and  crickets  gay, 

And  smiles  on  breezes  bringing 
Sweet  scents  from  far  away, 
Day  after  day. 

Day  after  day 

"Sweet  is  it  to  have  found  you," 
It  sings ;  "but  far  away, 

And  farther  yet  beyond  you, 
I  flow  to  find  the  bay 
Day  after  day." 

Day  after  day, 

"Why  should  my  going  grieve  you?" 
It  sings;  "O,  you  who  may, 

Come  with  me  or  I  leave  you," 
Still  flowing  to  the  bay 
Day  after  day. 


"IN  THE   SPRING-TIME." 

O  EE  what  I  saw  to-day, 
Just  as  I  turned  away 
To  leave  the  budding  wood, 
And  paused  and  understood 
The  meaning  of  Spring  weather; 
Two  lovers  close  together, 
That, — where  at  last  the  laughing  brook 
Glides  to  the  lake, — with  dreamy  look 
And  lips  half-parted  in  a  smile — 
Stood  charmed  to  watch  a  little  isle, 
Past  which  the  waves  went  rippling  on 
With  softer  music  to  the  swan 
That  sat  there  in  enchanted  rest, 
Unmoving  on  her  nest. 


IN   EARLY   APRIL. 

r  I  "*HE  cold  is  over,  the  snows  are  gone, 

The  grass  begins  to  be  green  once  more, 
And  shyly  opening  one  by  one, 

The  crocuses  blossom  beside  the  door ; 

Love,  if  you  love  me,  love  me  more  ! 

The  tops  of  the  maples  are  faintly  red, 
The  amber  willows  are  seen  afar  ; 

And  laughing,  chirruping  overhead, 

The  birds  that  glisten,  how  glad  they  are ! 
Dearest,  the  nearest  is  still  too  far  ! 


IN   MAY. 

TV  TOW  that  the  green  hill-side  has  quite 

Forgot  that  it  was  ever  white, 
With  quivering  grasses  clothed  upon  ; 
And  dandelions  invite  the  sun; 
And  columbines  have  found  a  way 
To  overcome  the  hard  and  gray 
Old  rocks  that  also  feel  the  Spring; 
And  birds  make  love  and  swing  and  sing 
On  boughs  which  were  so  bare  of  late ; 
And  bees  become  importunate; 
And  butterflies  are  quite  at  ease 
Upon  the  well-contented  breeze. 
Which  only  is  enough  to  make 
A  shadowy  laughter  on  the  lake; 


120  IN  MAY. 

And  all  the  clouds,  that  here  and  there 
Are  floating,  melting  in  the  air, 
Are  such  as  beautify  the  blue ; — 
Now  what  is  worthier,  May,  than  you 
Of  all  my  praise,  of  all  my  love, 
Except  whom  you  remind  me  of? 


SPRING    SONG. 

i. 

T\   /T  ORE  soft  and  white  and  light, 
More  fragrant  than  the  snow, 
The  cherry  flowers  are  falling 
And  floating  to  and  fro 
About  the  happy  trees; 
And  happy  birds  are  calling 
Each  other,  and  the  breeze 
Is  listening,  loth  to  go. 

2. 

And  yet  these  are  the  trees 
That  seemed  so  cold  and  stern 
To  winter's  warmest  weather ; 
Wait  till  it  is  my  turn — 


122  SPRING  SONG. 

Wait  till  the  good  days  bring 
My  love  and  me  together, 
Breezes,  and  I  will  sing 
Songs  you  would  love  to  learn  ! 

3- 

Till  then  I  too,  like  you, 
In  a  bewildered  quest, 
Too  vainly  praying  ever 
Wholly  to  be  possest, 
Am  neither  free  nor  thrall; 
In  all  things  something,  never 
In  one  thing  finding  all ; 
Unanswered  and  unblest. 


SONG. 


r  I  "HERE  is  grass  now  where  the  snow  was 

Everywhere  ; 
There  are  blossoms  now  for  snow-flakes 

In  the  air; 
And  the  birds  have  hiding-places 

In  the  trees, 
Where  the  green  leaves  turn  and  tremble 

To  the  breeze  ; 

And  where  the  ice  was,  now  the  swan 
Moves  the  lake  she  floats  upon. 

O  my  Love  !  and  there  is  singing 

Now  to  hear  ; 
And  a  motion  and  a  murmur 

Far  and  near, 


124  MAY  SONG. 

In  the  grasses,  in  the  waters, 

In  the  flowers, 
Fill  with  mystery  of  music 

All  the  hours, 

Made  too  delightful  now  for  one 
To  dare  to  live  his  life  alone. 

Come  then,  come,  my  Love,  and  listen, 

Come  and  see  ! 
Come  and  share  the  beauty  with  me; 

Come  and  be 
Its  interpreter  to  make  it 

Understood, 
Its  enhancer,  Love,  to  make  it 

Doubly  good ; 

Till  I  perhaps  grow  lovely  too, 
Thanks  to  the  spring-time  and  to  you  ! 


MOONLIGHT   IN   MAY. 

r  I  ^HANKS  !  for  I  understand  you,  happy  trees  ! 
And  smile  with   you  at  all   that  made  me 

sad, 

Drawn  unawares  beyond  all  griefs  I  had 
Into  the  truthfulness  of  clear  moonlight, 
Before  whose  frankness  I  can  banish  quite 
The  old  forlorn  endeavour  to  be  glad, 
And  carelessly  stand  listening  as  I  please 
To  the  low  rustle  on  the  sparkling  shore 
Of  conscious  waves,  that,  ripplingly  at  ease, 
Outrun  the  light  and  lead  it  on  before; 
Or  to  the  murmur  of  the  moonlit  trees, 
"Whom  time  of  waiting  and  reserve  is  o'er, 
Whom  Spring  has  taught  to  captivate  the  breeze, 

And  charm  the  nights  made  musical  once  more, 
n* 


IN   THE   MEADOW. 

T  DLE,  and  all  in  love  with  idleness ; 

Caught    in  the  net-work  that   my  oak-tree 

weaves 

Of  light  and  shadow  with  his  thrilling  leaves, 
And  charmed   to   hear   his    murmured  songs  no 

less, 

On  the  shorn  grass  I  lie,  and  let  the  excess 
Of  summer  life  seem  only  summer  play ; 
Even  to  the  farmers  working  far  away, 
Where  one  man  lifts  and  strenuously  heaves 
A  bristly  haycock  up  to  him  who  stands 
Unsteadily  upon  the  swaying  load, 
Which,  while  the  shuffling  oxen  slowly  pass, 
Touched  into  wakefulness  by  voice  and  goad, 
He    shapes    and   smooths,    and    turning    in    his 

hands, 
The  long  fork  glistens  like  a  rod  of  glass. 


BY  THE   LAKE. 

E  how  the  restless  melancholy  lake 
Gives  all  itself,  too  vainly  evermore, 
Up  to  the  blankness  of  the  barren  shore 
Which  cannot  answer  it  again,  nor  take 
Warmth  to  its  loveless  life  from  lips  that  ache 
With  kissing  and  beseeching  o'er  and  o'er. 
O  bitterness  of  life,  not  known  before  ! 
Who  shall  deliver  it  from  loves  that  make 

No  answer  to  its  yearning,  strangely  strong 
To  shut  it  in  and  waste  its  noblest  powers? 

Making  a  moan  of  what  was  meant  for  song, 
And  for  its  hope  of  growing  grass  and  flowers, 
Condemning  it  to  see  its  best  endeavour 
End  in  slow  foam  on  fruitless  sands  forever. 


BY  THE   BAY. 

S~\N  the  smooth  shore  I  stand  alone  and  see 
A  wonder  in  the  distance  :  there  the  bay, 
Drawn  on  to  meet  and  mingle  far  away 
With  the  broad  sky's  unstained  serenity, 
Pauses  at  last  from  panting  restlessly ; 
Smooths  his  short  waves,  and  scorning  to  delay, 
Falls  from  the  rounded  world  with  all  his  weight 
In  silence  through  the  silences  below; 
Where  nothing  balks  the  aimless  overflow, 
Till  all  the  solid  waters  separate, 
Split  into  streams,  that  bursting  as  they  go 
Fly  off  in  rain,  that  ends  in  scattered  spray 
And  mist  that  rises  for  the  winds  to  blow 
Hither  and  thither  in  unending  play. 


THE   MIST. 

T    SAW  along  the  lifeless  sea 

A  mist  come  creeping  stealthily, 
Without  a  noise  and  slow, 
A  crouching  mist  come  crawling  low 
Along  the  lifeless  sea. 

None  marked  that  creeping,  crawling  mist 

That  crawled  along  the  sea, 

That  crept  and  crawled  so  stealthily 

And  was  so  weak  and  white ; 

The  moon  was  shining  clear,   I  wist, 

Above  it  in  the  night. 


130  THE  MIST. 

I  saw  it  creeping,  crawling  low, 
Slow  crawling  from  the  sea, 
I  saw  it  creep  and  crawl  and  grow 
Till  all  the  stifled  earth  below 
Was  shrouded  silently  : 

I  saw  it  creep  and  crawl  and  grow, 
A.  forceless,  formless  thing, 
Determined,  tireless,  ceaseless,  slow, 
Silent  and  silencing ; 
I  saw  it  creep  and  crawl  and  rise 
And  crawl  into  the  skies ; 

The  stars  began  to  faint  and  fail, 

That  were  so  pure  and  clear; 

The  moon  took  on  a  loathsome  look 

Of  likeness  to  her  fear — 

That  closer  crawled  and  clung  to  her 

And  clung  more  near  and  near. 


THE  MIST.  131 

The  smothered  moon  went  out  and  left 

Not  even  the  mist  to  see, 

Mere  blankness,  and  a  sickening  sense 

Of  something  worse  to  be ; 

And  certainly  in  midst  of  it 

An  awful  thing  I  wist, 

It  was  to  know  that  all  the  world 

Was  nothing  but  a  mist, 

But  a  creeping,  crawling  mist. 


RARA   AVIS. 


QTANDING  in  shade,  beside  a  path  that  lay 

Full  in  the  sunlight  of  the  afternoon, 
A  gush  of  song  from  some  bird  far  away 
I  heard  arise  and  sink  again  as  soon  ; 


And  still  I  listened,  but  no  more  I  heard, 
And  all  I  saw  was  on  the  sunny  ground 
The  flying  shadow  of  an  unseen  bird, 
No  sooner  come,  than  gone  without  a  sound. 

And  so  a  song  that  I  have  never  heard 
Surpasses  all  that  I  shall  ever  hear, 
And  by  the  shadow  of  a  vanished  bird 
The  rest  are  darkened  and  not  very  dear. 


THE   KATYDID. 

\  T  7 HO  knows  of  what  the  katydid 

Sings  every  night  where  he  is  hid 
In  secret  grasses  or  in  trees 
That  have  so  many  mysteries  ? 
But  under  faint  far  stars,  that  peer 
Through  fainter  clouds,  I  stand  and  hear 
Him  singing,  and  know  not  indeed 
If  any  other  song  I  need ; 
If  any  other  song  there  be 
So  full  of  thrilling  things  to  me ; 
Deluding  me  with  old  delights 
That  wake  and  make  less  happy  nights 
Not  wholly  barren  for  their  sakes ; 
And  old  and  new  desires  it  wakes 

12 


134  THE  KATYDID. 

For  sweeter  things  than  are ;  and  all 

That  ever  was  or  is  or  shall 

Be  made  for  longing  or  regret 

It  mingles  and  makes  lovelier  yet; 

Till  now  if  over  or  below 

He  sing  or  cease  I  hardly  know ! 


A  VINE. 

OOTED  and  sure  to  grow 
Serenely  in  poor  places, 
It  lets  its  freshness  flow 

O'er  barren  rocks,  and  graces 
Their  blankness  till  they  show, 
With  green  and  crimson  glow, 
As  if  themselves  did  make 
The  beauty  that  they  take. 

This  is  the  true  man's  way; 

To  let  no  kind  of  chances 
Warp  him  or  turn  astray ; 

The  blankest  circumstances 
Shall  give  his  spirit  play 
If  he  will — as  he  may — 

Because  the  rest  are  slow, 

Strive  all  the  more  to  grow. 


ON    THE   BEACH. 

r  I  ^HANKS  to  the  few  fair  clouds  that  show 

So  white  against  the  blue, 
At  last  even  I  begin  to  know 
What  I  was  born  to  do; 

What  else  but  here  alone  to  lie 

And  bask  me  in  the  sun? 
Well  pleased  to  see  the  sails  go  by 

In  silence  one  by  one; 

Or  lovingly,  along  the  low 

Smooth  shore  no  plough  depraves, 

To  watch  the  long  low  lazy  flow 
Of  the  luxurious  waves. 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   LIFE. 

/'~>VH,  not  in  vain  some  happier  influence  led 
My  feet  to  wander  where  few  footsteps  go  ! 
After  so  long  a  pacing  to  and  fro 
In  barren  ways,  how  good  it  is  instead, 
Here  where  the  blue  is  ample  overhead, 
And  where  the  green  is  plentiful  below, 
To  be  alone  and  let  the  unquestioned  flow 
Of  real  life  control  me  quieted ! 
Quieted,  yes !  and  brought  near  to  behold 
The  only  life  that  makes   me  loth  to  die  ; 
Whether  the  grass  or  whether  the  light  breeze 
Gladden  me  more,  or  whether  it  be  these 
Slim  silver  birches,  lifting  to  the  sky 
Such  quivering  fountains  of  sunshiny  gold. 

12* 


MY   STAR. 

r  I  ^HAT  is  my  star,  that  single  one, 
Who,  rising  first  and  all  alone 
Ere  yet  the  day  is  fairly  gone, 

Pale  with  old  love  and  new  delight, 
Stands  thrilling  on  the  lonely  height, 
Prophet  and  herald  of  the  night ; 

Whom  many  more  shall  greet,  but  none 
So  grandly  as  this  lonely  one. 


MAN   AND   NATURE. 

/^\   STEADFAST  trees,  that  know 
Rain,  hail  and  sleet  and  snow, 
And  all  the  winds  that  blow ; 

But  when  spring  comes,  can  then 

So  freshly  bud  again 
Forgetful  of  the  wrong ! 

Waters  that  deep  below 

The  stubborn  ice  can  go 

With  quiet  underflow ; 
Contented  to  be  dumb 
Till  spring  herself  shall  come 

To  listen  to  your  song  ! 


140  MAN  AND  NATURE. 

Stars  that  the  clouds  pass  o'er 
And  stain  not,  but  make  more 
Alluring  than  before  ; — 
How  good  it  is  for  us 
That  your  lives  are  not  thus 
Prevented,  but  made  strong  ! 


CALM   AND   COLD. 

"1T)REAK  into  spray,  and  fly  and  fill  the  air 
With  ghastly  mist  that  freezes  ere  it  falls, 
O  struggling  waves  !  whom  not  the  wind  appals, 
Nor  all  the  wrestling  tempests  overbear, 
But  secret  fear,  lest,  pausing  weary  there, 
Instead  of  peace,  renewing  whom  it  calls, 
The  subtle  cold,  that  levels  and  enthralls, 
Should  creep  and  find  and  bind  you  unaware  : 
And  what  were  worse  than,   smoothly  calm  and 

cold, 

Wrapt  in  false  peace,  to  fancy  strife  is  o'er, 
Forget  the  woes  that  all  the  winds  deplore, 
Forget  the  cares  that  all  the  clouds  enfold, 
Watch  not  nor  wait  for  changes  as  of  old, 
And  feel  the  movement  of  the  world  no  more ! 


WINTER   SUNRISE. 

AT  7 HEN  I  consider,  as  I  am  forced  to  do, 

The  many  causes  of  my  discontent, 
And  count  my  failures,  and  remember  too 
How  many  hopes  the  failures  represent ; 
The  hope  of  seeing  what  I  have  not  seen, 
The  hope  of  winning  what  I  have  not  won, 
The  hope  of  being  what  I  have  not  been, 
The  hope  of  doing  what  I  have  not  done  ; 
When  I  remember  and  consider  these — 
Against  my  Past  my  Present  seems  to  lie 
As  bare  and  black  as  yonder  barren  trees 
Against  the  brightness  of  the  morning  sky, 
Whose  golden  expectation  puts  to  shame 
The  lurking  hopes  to  which  they  still  lay  claim. 


WINTER  SUNSET. 

T    SAW  a  cloud  at  set  of  sun 

Exceeding  white  and  fair, 
High  over  every  other  one, 
And  poised  in  purer  air; 

Like  one  that  follows,  forward  bent, 
With  arms  outspread  before, 

Into  the  splendid  west  he  went 
Just  as  the  "day  was  o'er ; 


I  saw  him  turn  to  rosy  red, 
I  saw  him  turn  to  fire, 

I  saw  him  burn  away  instead 
Of  ceasing  to  desire. 


BY  THE   FIRESIDE. 

(December  26. ) 

at  home,  what  is  it  that  I  hear 
In  the  wind's  moaning  and  the  driven  snow 
That  will  not  let  me  rest  ?  Strange  sounds  of  woe 
From  icy  sailors  battling  with  their  fear; 
The  dreadful  rush  of  shuddering  ships  that  steer 
For  safety  from  the  harbours  that  they  know ; 
The  thunder  of  blown  icebergs  as  they  go 
Together  in  the  darkness ;  and  more  near, 
And  worse  than  all  the  tumult  of  the  seas, 
A  long  low  moan  and  sound  of  scanty  tears 
From  hungry  men  and  women  as  they  freeze. 
O  Christ !  the  world  is  sad  these  many  years 
For  many  causes ;  would  that  one  might  cease 
From  making  vain  all  promises  of  peace  ! 


THE   MEN   OF   CRETE. 

(January,    1867.) 

XT  7OULD    that  death   were   as  far   removed 

as  fear 

From   all  heroic  hearts !     Shall  death   be  known 
The  only  friend  of  heroes  left  alone 
To  fight  for  what  men  say  that  they  revere, 
Unhelped,  unheard?  and   dying   shall   they   hear 
Only  a  longer  wail,  a  deeper  moan 
From  all  they  love,  more  utterly  o'erthrown 
Because   they  loved,  and   proved  their   love  sin 
cere? 

O   men !   how   long   shall   this    great   wrong   en 
dure? 

The  slave  be  ruler,  and  the  hero  slave, 
Truth's  service  suffering,  and  earth  too  poor 
To  give  her  noblemen  more  than  a  grave  ? 
But  take  it,  Cretans !  for  the  tree  is  sure 

Whose  branches  murmur  o'er  the  martyred  brave. 
13 


THE   LION   OF   LUCERNE. 

i. 

OILENT  it  is,  but  over  it  the  trees 

And  under  it  the  waters,  and  around 
The   bees  and  birds  and  grasses  make  a  sound 
Of  life  whose  movement  is  all  grace  and  ease, 
Devoid  of  fears,  devoid  of  ecstasies, 
But  full  of  joy  as  careless  as  profound ; 
Silent  it  is,  but  none  the  less  at  last 
Its  mute  insistence  overcomes  the  ear 
And  steals  the  pleasure  that  it  had  to  hear 
Earth's    peaceful    noises,   which   seem    changing 

fast 

Into  mere  mockery,  as  the  wave-like  Past, 
Recurring  sullenly,  brings  near  and  near 
The   unjoyful  murmur  of  man's   ceaseless  strife, 
Let  break  in  vain  against  the  shore  of  life. 


THE  LION   OF   LUCERNE. 

• 
ii. 

"\7"ET  there  is  life,  and  there  is  joy  and  peace ; 
Life  before   death,  and  peace  this  side  the 

grave, 

And  joy  in  Earth,  for  this  is  what  we  crave, 
Not  to  postpone,  nor  to  forego  and  cease, 
But  in  fulfilment  to  obtain  release 
From   strife  which  vexes,  but  at  last  shall  save : 
Therefore  to  you,  blithe  singing  birds  and   bees, 
To  you,  soft  trickling  waters,  and  to  you, 
Slow  melting  cloud- wreaths  in  the  unruffled  blue, 
Above  the  movement  of  the  mingled  trees, 
To  you  once  more  my  soul  returns  and  sees, 
And   hears,  not   mockery,  but   a  calm  and   true 
Correction  and  approval  of  the  strife, 
Which  is  not  life,  but  shall  attain  to  life. 


MY   PLACE. 

• 
'""INHERE    are    more  reasons   than    I    care  to 

know 

Why  I  should  love  this  place  of  mine  so  well, 
And  not  the  least  of  them  perhaps  is  this  : 
That  never  yet  have  I  seen  any  one 
Of  those, — but  few, — who  even  pass  it  by, 
Who  ever  thought  of  loving  it  at  all, 
Or  ever  fancied,  much  less  knew  how  near, 
For  me  at  least,  it  is  to  Paradise. 

A  place  reserved,  a  place  apart,  afar 
From  any  human  love  but  only  mine; 
Yet  in  itself  most  lovely  (as  indeed 
My  love  for  it  is  quite  enough  to  prove), 
Though  not  another  love  it  but  myself, 
Who  therefore  love  it  only  all  the  more. 


MY  PLACE.  149 

For  who  can  say  he  knows  what  Nature  is, 

Till  he  have  found  him  out  some  sacred  spot 

Where  none  delights  to  linger  but  himself? 

But  if  he  once  has  found  him  such  a  place, 

O!  there  for  him,  wherever  his  foot  fall, 

As  from  the  hoof  of  Pegasus,  upsprings 

A  living  Hippocrene,  whereof  his  soul 

May  drink  and  be  inspired  for  evermore. 

But  let  him,  as  with  dragons  round  about, 

Shut  in  and  keep  his  garden  of  delight, 

Lest,  if  he  find  another  foot-print  there, 

His  fountain  change  into  a  lifeless  pool, 

Or  shyly  sink  into  the  earth  again. 

Once  in  a  great  while  one  may  take  his  friend 

(For,  if  he  be  indeed  a  friend,  the  law 

Of  oneness  is  not  too  much  disobeyed) 

To  see  the  place  and  yet  preserve  his  love ; — 

But  for  the  time  he  loses,  I  affirm, 

The  best  of  what  its  influence  affords 

To  him  alone  who  visits  it  alone  ; — 

13* 


150  MY  PLACE. 

Just  as  one  to  a  woman  whom  he  loves 
In  an  unselfish  moment  brings  a  friend, 
But  goes  perforce  to  visit  her  alone 
Whenever  he  would  be  supremely  blest. 

Hear  something,  therefore,  now  about  my  place. 

But  first,  I  will  not  tell  you  where  it  is, 

Lest  you  should  choose  to  go  there  for  yourself, 

And  find  it  not  so  beautiful  to  you 

As  I  say  it  is  beautiful  to  me; 

And  after  think  as  ill  of  me,  perhaps, 

As  some  unhappy  moralists  of  those 

Old  painters  who  were  not  ashamed  to  make 

Madonnas  of  their  mistresses.     Alas  ! 

From  the  main  road  I  turn  abrupt,  and  walk, 
Shadowed  by  lazy  willows  (of  our  trees 
The  first  to  show,  the  last  to  shed  their  leaves — 
Most  hopeful  and  most  faithful  of  them  all), 
A  little  way  along  a  lonely  lane 


MY  PLACE.  151 

Which  leads  me  to  the  entrance  of  my  place — 
So  I  have  named  it — which,  though  often  seen, 
Yet  somehow  always  takes  me  by  surprise. 

It  seems  to  be  a  road — though  never  yet 
Have  I  seen  horse  or  wagon  enter  it — 
Which  passes  downward  crookedly  between 
Old  rocks  which  overshadow  it  all  day : 
Old  rocks  whose  tops  are  overgrown  with  grass, 
Where  violets  delay  dewdrops  from  the  sun, 
And  dandelions  show  like  midsummer  stars, 
Or  languid  moons  at  mid-day,  ere  the  breeze 
Has  played  the  sower  with  them ;  daisies,  too, 
Contemplative  till  Fall ;  and  in  the  Fall 
Frank  purple  asters,  and  glad  golden  rod : 
Slim  birch  trees  shadow  them  not  heavily, 
And  overlean  the  pass  from  either  side, 
With  silver  trunks  and  shining  restless  leaves, 
And  twigs  so  slight    that   when    the    leaves    are 
gone 


152  MY  PLACE. 

I  scarce  regret  their  absence  in  the  Fall, 
So  delicately  beautiful  appear 
The  loosely  interwoven,  sharp,  thin  lines, 
With  pendulous  seed-tassels  held  aloft 
In  shifting  tracery  on  the  pale  blue  sky. 

But  O  !  to  stand  directly  in  the  midst, 
Below  the  scarred  old  rocks  on  either  hand, 
Low  down  in  shadow,  and  from  off  the  ground 
To  let  the  eye  rise  from  the  weedy  grass 
And  slowly  make  acquaintance  with  the  moss 
And  many-coloured  lichens  of  the  rock ; 
And  with    the    hanging   grass,  which   grows    and 

sways, 

Head  downward,  whispering  softly  to  the  breeze ; 
With  vines  that  climb  and  vines  that  overfall 
Luring  the  eye  to  follow  the  long  curves, 
Till  high  above  I  see  the  twisted  roots, 
And  higher  yet,  like  lines  of  silver  light, 
The  overreaching  stems  that  half  across, 


MY  PLACE.  153 

From  either  side  the  pathway,  hold  aslant 

The  longing  separated  birches  there, 

Whose  quivering  leaves  attempt  to  blend  in  vain; 

And  higher  yet,  between  them  and  beyond, 

As  if  seen  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 

Lo  the  blue  sky!  far  off,  but  not  too  far! 

Beyond  the  rocks  are  trees  that  overhang 
Few  wild  flowers  in  the  Spring,  but   in  the  Fall 
Uncounted  wealth  of  many-coloured  leaves — 
Old  chestnut  trees,  and  hickories  and  oaks, 
Wound    round    with    woodbine,    overgrown    with 

moss, 

Under  whose  ample  branches  dogwoods  grow. 
In  Winter  I  have  seen  them  blotted  out 
By    blurring    snow-storms   from    the    encroaching 

sky, 
And    on    smooth  lying    snow   have     traced,    how 

oft, 
The  still  blue  shadows  of  their  thinnest  twigs; 


154  MY  PLACE. 

And    in    the    Spring    have    seen    them    putting 

forth, 

And  thrilled  to  see  that  first  faint  tender  green 
Above  the  rugged  bark,  as  if  I  saw 
Tears  of  mere  tenderness  upon  the  face 
Of  some  stern  fighter  in  a  life-long  war; 
And  in  the  Summer  I  have  sat  and  mused 
For  hours  beneath  their  dream-compelling  leaves. 

But  in  the  Autumn  love  them  most  of  all ; 
And  that  especially  for  four  or  five 
Supreme  old  oaks  and  hickories,  even  now, 
This  third  day  of  November,  which  retain 
A  glory  that  no  others  ever  had. 
The  frequent  maples,  that  last  month  fulfilled 
The  air  with  cheerfulness,  are  faded  now 
To  brooding  brown,  or  oftener  yet  become 
Mere  leaden  outlines,  stiif  and  cold ;  but  here 
Are  hickories  still  with  living  golden  leaves 
Unblenching  from  the  breezes,  while  around 


MY  PLACE.  155 

The    chestnut    leaves    are    fluttering     down    in 

showers, 
And  even  in  places  crackling  under  foot. 

But  the  one  tree  which  consecrates  the  place 
With  glorious  beauty  is  a  lonely  oak 
Which  stands  full  in  the  sunlight,  with  a  mass 
Of  quivering,  clear,  almost  transparent  leaves, 
Which  look  like  burning  rubies  in  the  air, 
So  red  they  are,  so  full  of  life  and  light. 
No  other  autumn  tree  can  match  with  this — 
No  scarlet  maple  among  its  golden  mates, 
No  sumach,  no,  nor  woodbine  where  it  falls 
O'er  a  gray  rock  in  sunlight,  shows  a  red 
So  clear,  so  pure,  so  ravishing  as  this — 
Like  light  itself,  a  mystery,  a  charm : 
One  almost  fears  to  see  it  pass  away 
With  every  movement  of  the  hovering  breeze ; 
But  it  remains,  it  lives  and  glows  and  grows, 
And  holds  me  like  a  sunset,  till  at  last 


156  MY  PLACE. 

I  break  away  reluctantly,  and  turn 
And  turn  again  to  see  it  yet  once  more, 
Mingling  its  rubies  with  the  glancing  gold 
Of  sunlit  leaves  behind  it,  while  the  sky, 
In  sapphire  flecks  seen  thro'  the  magic  web, 
Seems  quivering  with  its  motion  like  the  sea. 

But  ere  one  passes  from  between  the  rocks, 
He  sees  a  gleam  of  brightness  underneath, 
Which  tells  him  why  the  pathway  all  at  once 
Descends  so  swiftly,  making  haste  to  meet 
The  beckoning  waters  that  it  sees  below. 
And  so  its  eagerness  begets  in  me 
An  equal  longing,  and  I  hurry  down, 
And  for  a  moment  am  amazed  and  blind 
Before  the  rippling  river  as  it  flows 
And  flashes  in  the  sunlight  at  my  feet. 

But,  far  off  in  the  distance  to  the  left, 
Soon  I  begin  to  see  a  narrow  shore 


MY  PLACE.  157 

Which  widens  ever,  till  straight  across  I  see 
Broad  sloping  fields,  and  back  of  them  the  woods 
That  step  by  step  rise  up  to  mark  the  sky 
With  dark  uneven  fringes  on  the  blue ; 
Then  no  more  meadows  for  the  waves  to  wash, 
But  a  bare  wall  to  beat  against  in  vain 
Of  unassisted  rock,  which  far  away 
Curves  suddenly  to  meet,  or  seem  to  meet 
The  bending  shore,  and  shut  the  river  in, 
So  that  all  sails  that  pass  me  outward  bound 
Seem  all  at  once  to  strangely  disappear 
As  if  the  mountain  took  them,  as  of  old 
The  Venusberg  took  Venus  and  her  knight ; 
While    those    that    come    seem    rising    from    the 

depths, 

Like  Flying-Dutchmen  from  another  world. — 
And  yonder  by  the  chestnut  is  My  Place 

It  has  two  parts  ;  the  first,  a  grassy  bank 

Just  on  the  border  of  a  little  wood 
14 


158  MY  PLACE. 

Of  chestnut-trees,  above  a  tiny  pool 
Of  shallow  water,  from  whose  edge  the  grass 
Slopes  once  again  to  meet  the  actual  shore 
(Its  second  part),  than  which  I  think  there  is 
No  better  place  to  see  and  hear  the  waves, 
And  watch  the  noiseless  changes  of  the  clouds. 

When  I  first  found  it  'twas  a  lovely  day — 
A  lovely  latter  May-day,  warm  and  bright — 
A  day  for  lying  on  the  grass  alone. 
To  watch  and  wonder  at  the  tender  leaves, 
And  breathe  the  fragrance  of  the  kindred  ground ; 
Over  and  back  of  me  the  breathing  trees, 
And  over  these,  seen  partly  thro'  the  boughs, 
The  waveless  sky,  with  little  melting  clouds ; 
Below,  the  shallow  waters  reproduced 
The  rocks  and  shrubs  and  overhanging  trees, 
And  sky  and  clouds  and  butterflies  and  birds — 
Its  magic  stillness  broken  only  once 
By  magic  music,  where  a  thin  lost  rill, 


MY  PLACE.  159 

From  groping  thro'  the  hiding  grass,  at  last 
Stole  forth  and  found  and  fell  into  its  lake, 
With  ripple  and  flash,  like  laughter  heard  and 

seen ; 

And  then  the  river,  seen  without  its  shore, 
Bright  in  the  sunlight,  rippled  by  the  breeze ; 
Far  off  the  incessant  glances  of  a  quick 
Insufferable  multitude  of  suns; 
Nearer,  a  broad  white  band  of  blinding  light, 
Which  made  the  waters  just  this  side  of  it 
Seem  almost  black  with  gloom,  which  when  the 

sails 
Touched  they   were  changed,  and   in  a  moment 

gone, 
Lost  in  the  splendour  of  concealing  light. 

And  many  a  morning  since,  upon  the  shore 
Have  I  sat  still  and  let  the  river  flow 
Unheeded,  while  I  watched  the  silent  clouds 
On  the  transparent  river  of  the  air, 


160  MY  PLACE. 

Like  ruffled  swans  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 

Whose  motion  was  for  music ;  or  have  tried 

To  name  the  unimaginable  forms 

Of  all  the  cirri  in  the  upper  blue, 

Pleased  like  a  child  to  mark  what  flecks  of  foam, 

What  overfalling  wool-white  waves  were  there, 

What  misty  beams,  what  thread-like  lines  of  light, 

What  flying  flashes  of  revolving  fire, 

What  airy  tongues  of  unpolluted  flame, 

What  breathing  Northern-lights,  what  Milky-ways, 

What  fairy  frost-work,  what  gigantic  ferns, 

What  cirri  simply  (I  came  back  to  that) — 

Till  into  me  insensibly  the  charm 

Of  all  the  loveliness  of  all  the  sky, 

Its  light,  its  joy,  its  clearness  and  its  calm, 

Stole  like  sweet  music,  ending  in  a  cry 

Of  inexpressible  desire,  and  passed. 

And  still  the  breeze  just  touched  the  lazy  leaves, 

And  at  my  feet  the  seeming  sleepy  waves 

Moved  only  as  a  dreamful  sleeper  breathes. 


MY  PLACE.  161 

But  there  are  days  of  quiet,  when  the  calm 

Seems  not  of  dreaming,  but  of  speechless  thought, 

And  under  all  the  quietness  I  feel, 

I  know  what  lurking  restlessness  is  there, 

That  with  the  waking  comes  the  war  again. 

And  often  as  I  sit  and  look  across, 

And  contemplate  the  slow  unyielding  rocks, 

Dead  to  the  movement  of  the  clouds  and  waves, 

Their  joy  or  pain,  their  hope  or  their  despair, — 

Oft  as  I  sit  alone  and  look  at  these, 

The  whole  world  changes,  and  at  once  my  dreams 

Born  of  the  warm  air  and  the  whispering  leaves, 

Are  scattered  from  me  by  the  self-same  thought 

That  crowds  the  waves  to  wear  the  rocks  away ; 

Then  what  are  dreams  of  things  to  be  desired 

To  that  desire  of  things  to  be  denied, 

Which  pricks  me  to  my  feet  and  sets  my  face 

With  hungry  pain  against  the  little  breeze  ? — 

Longing  to  feel  it  change  into  a  swift, 

Indignant  wind,  which  shall  .uprouse  the  waves 
14* 


1 62  MY  PLACE. 

To  fury,  and  the  tree-tops  to  a  grand 
Dishevelled  madness,  while  from  woods  to  waves 
The  roar  is  answered,  and  my  soul  relieved 
By  lifting  music  from  its  want  of  wings, 
And  envy  of  the  sea-gulls,  where  they  fly 
Wrestling  the  wind,  insatiate  of  the  storm. 

Such  winds  I  find  here  often  in  the  Fall 
Then    not    such    clouds    as     but    enhance    the 

blue 

Above  the  rippling  river  whitely  sail 
Nowhither  smoothly,  but  rebellious  shapes 
Of  writhing  darkness,  like  the  lower  waves, 
.Rise  raging  and  fall  sullenly,  blown  on 
And  dashed  against  the  inviolable   sun; 
Grandly  they  rise  and  grandly  are  thrust  down, 
The  ragged  foam-like  edges  wildly  bright 
With  an  unwelcome  brightness,  till  at  last — 
As  naturally  as  if  the  storm  itself 
Were  but  the  inclusion  of  a  central  calm — 


MY  PLACE.  163 

There    comes    a    change ;    the    uncertain    wind 

decides ; 
The  trees  still   rock   and   roar    and    grind;    the 

waves 

Still  writhe  and  gnash  and  murmur  unappeascd ; 
The  clouds  still  sway  and  struggle  overhead; 
But  in  the  west  a  space  of  purer  blue 
(Heaven  never  is  so  purely  blue  as  when 
The  heavy  clouds  are  broken  after  rain) 
Expects  its  glory  from  the  setting  sun, 
And  takes  it,  and  the  changing  clouds  no  less 
Take  alien  beauty,  and  I  too  am  glad 
After  the  storm,  and  with  light  step  and  heart 
Can  now  walk  homeward,  having  little  need, 
Lighted  and  shone  upon  by  such  a  sky, 
Of  any  God  or  Goddess,  Friend  or  Love, 
Except  for  thanks,  except  for  sympathy. 


AD   AMICUM. 

1  ^ORGIVE  me  if  I  seem  to  change  and  be 
Other  than  what  you  loved  rne  for  before ; 
What    is    not    changed  and    changing  ?   Ah !    no 

more, 

No  more  now  in  fresh  morning  meadows  we 
With  songs  may  walk  together,  light  and  free, 
But,  thrust  apart,  too  hardly  measure  o'er 
A  highway  journey,  in  whose  dust  and  roar 
All  things  are  altered  that  we  hear  and  see  : 
What  wonder  then  if  I  look  dark  and  grim, 
Soiled  by  the  dust  of  this  too  dusty  way? 
What  wonder  if  the  eye  grow  strangely  dim, 
And  the  voice  husky  that  was  once  so  gay? 
And  yet  I  think  the  unforgotten  hymn 
Shall   yet   again   be    sung  some    not  too    distant 
day. 


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